


The Boys In Navy Blue

by Marblez



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Battle of Jutland - 1916, F/F, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slash, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:04:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marblez/pseuds/Marblez
Summary: What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?





	1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
CHAPTER ONE**

**Ripon, Yorkshire  
Tuesday 4th February 1919**

Despite spending most of his wartime career operating out of either _Rosyth, Scotland_ , or _Scapa Flow_ , a body of water in the _Orkney Islands_ , Thomas had ended his Naval Career in the home of the _Royal Navy; Portsmouth_. He had been transferred to _HMS Excellent_ , the latest of the shore establishments located in the nautical town, in the days following the internment of the _German Navy’s High Seas Fleet_ at _Scapa Flow_ on the orders of his Captain who had also received a transfer to the shore base and wanted to take his best steward with him. Thomas had been both flattered and annoyed; flattered to know that he had made such an impression on the man that he would help to further his career in order to keep him close by and annoyed that the decision to transfer had been taken completely out his hands.

He had waited only four weeks before putting in his request to leave the _Naval Service_.

Shipboard life, surprisingly, had suited him but life on a shore establishment was surprisingly different. It didn’t help that Thomas had gone from being the _Chief Officers Steward_ , firstly on board the cruiser _HMS Warrior_ and then on the battleship _HMS Warspite_ , to one of the _Junior Officer Stewards_ in the bases _Wardroom_. Nor did it help that he knew there was a much more preferable job waiting for him at _Downton Abbey_ should his time at sea be over.

Once his request had been authorised and the frustratingly complicated process of leaving the _Royal Navy_ had officially begun Thomas had sent a telegram to his future employer at _Downton Abbey_ , letting them know to expect him sometime in the next couple of weeks.

And that was how he came to be alighting from the last stage of the somewhat complicated train journey from the South Coast, a journey that had required one twenty minute stop to allow another train to pass them by and two separate changes, at Ripon’s familiar station.

No one was there to greet him, not that he had been expecting anyone as he hadn’t been able to confirm his date and time of arrival in advance, and so he shouldered his canvas kit bag with practiced ease and made his way along the station towards the exit. He still wore his uniform, not having had enough time between the final paperwork being sorted and the departure time of his first train, and so drew rather more attention than he would have like.

Despite having been travelling for most of the day his uniform was still presentable enough that he could have walked straight into the _Wardroom_ and not received a reprimand; his _“white front”_ was crisp and clean underneath his navy blue jumper, the twin creases running down the sleeves almost as sharp as those forming the required _“W”_ on his blue collar. His silk, a square of material folded seven times and sewn at one end to form a loop, was pressed and the bow securing it to his jumper perfectly formed. His white lanyard had been starched the day before and so all but shone where it was looped around the bottom of the silk, passing through the centre of the bow before disappearing inside of his jumper.

His bell-bottomed trousers were the only part of his uniform that had really suffered from the journey, tiny creases having formed on the backs of his knees and thighs between the seven required horizontal creases which were designed so that the trousers could be folded up like a concertina when not being worn. Thomas, with his training as a footman and the occasional stand-in valet, had never had a problem getting these creases, which alternated between pointing inwards and out, perfectly placed but several of his fellow stewards had made a complete hash of it until Thomas had instructed them on the proper way to do it.

Pausing to allow a mother with a young child on her hip to pass through the gate which separated the station from the road he just happened to glance down at his feet and noted, to his annoyance that one of his boots had been scuffed, a dull line slashing through the gleaming polish along the outside of the toe. The boots themselves were made of black leather which, once properly softened, made for a relatively comfortable fit and were toe-cap-less and un-hobnailed. As a steward he had been required to polish them until the toes were such that he could have used them as a mirror, catching the sun and literally glinting.

Finishing off his uniform was the white-topped peak-less cap which sat at a jaunty angle on top of his head, his ink black hair swept back underneath it. He’d received a new cap tally, black with a gold _HMS_ stitched into it, upon transferring to Portsmouth as his old one was looking a little bit worse for wear and so the complicated bow above his right ear was nice and crisp, not a single thread hanging loose and not even a trace of a curl at the end points.

His lone medal ribbon, the distinctive red, white and blue of the _1914-1915 Star_ which he had been issued with following its establishment in December 1918, stood out on his left breast as did the fouled anchor, made with gold thread embroidered onto a navy blue patch which he had sewn onto his uniform with pride, denoting his rank of _Leading Seaman_ on his left arm. Below his badge of rank sat a single gold _“good-conduct stripe”_ which was a simple way of recognising that he had served for sat least three years without a single reprimand.

 _They were probably more used to seeing khaki uniforms,_ Thomas thought to himself as he headed for the bus stop, _rather than navy blue so he couldn’t really blame them for staring._

Joining the line of people at the bus stop, a haggard looking mother and her two children, a young man with one of his trouser legs pinned up around all that was left of the limb who use a pair of wooden crutches to get around, a couple of young women carrying a collection of shopping packages, a teenage boy who was obviously in need of a good meal and, of all people, Anna Smith, Head Housemaid of Downton Abbey and Thomas’ former colleague.

“…Thomas?”

“Hello, Anna,” he responded, coming to a halt next to her and dropping his kit bag down to the ground, resting it expertly against his leg to keep it from tipping over. “You look well.”

“…thank you…” she murmured at last, her words coming out on autopilot. “I didn’t know you were coming back to Downton…I assume that’s where you’re headed? The Abbey?”

“That is my intended destination, yes,” Thomas confirmed, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. Anna refused the pack when he offered it to her. “I’m on my way to speak to Lieutenant… _Mr_ Crawley about a job. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

If Anna thought that the leather gloves he wore were out of place with his uniform she didn’t say so, focused as she was on his explanation. The gloves were, in fact, against the dress regulations but Thomas had been granted leave to wear them to hide the ugly scars which were cap start reminders of the injuries he had suffered during the _Battle of Jutland_.

“A job?” Anna repeated, sounding puzzled. “Are you coming back as a footman?”

“Not as a footman, no,” he countered with a shake of his head, calmly holding his cigarette between the first two fingers on his right hand. Anna frowned. “As Mr Crawleys new valet.”

“But Mr Crawley has refused to hire a valet since returning from the war…”

Thomas chuckled.

“Might have something to do with him having already offered me the position after I saved his life at the _Battle of Jutland_ ,” he offered lightly, turning as he heard the rattle of the open topped bus as it approached the stop. It looked exactly the same as it had before the war, from the gleaming red paint to the advert for “ _Pears Soap – The King of Soaps – The Soap of Kings_ ” along the sides enclosing the top deck to the freshly polished brass lamps, which left him to assume that it probably hadn’t been pressed into military service like many of them had been. Once it had come to a stop the two children at the front of the queue hurried on, climbing up the winding steps to get to the exposed upper level whilst their mother showed their ticket stubs to the female conductor. Thomas was the only one not to produce a ticket stub, instead fishing out a handful of coins as he followed Anna onto the public vehicle. “I’m surprised Miss O’Brien never mentioned it. We’ve discussed my return to the Abbey often.”

 _Often_ was perhaps stretching the truth a little bit...

“Single to Downton, please.”

“No charge,” the young conductress responding calmly, refusing the money he had been offering her in favour of ringing the bell that would signal to the driver that everyone was aboard. Thomas frowned at her in confusion. “My brother, Harry, was on _HMS Invincible._ ”

Thomas couldn’t stop himself from flinching as the mention of the battlecruiser brought back a vivid memory of the moment he had heard the horrific explosion, unlike anything he had ever heard before that day, which had sent 1,020 men to meet their maker, the ship all but vanishing in a plume of smoke between one glance and the next. Sadly _HMS Invincible_ hadn’t been the only battlecruiser to meet such an unexpectedly sudden end; in fact it was the last of the three which had been taken out during the course of the naval battle, _HMS Indefatigable_ and _HMS Queen Mary_ having both been destroyed a couple of hours earlier.

“I haven’t charged a single sailor for a ticket since.”

He was grateful to the fact that the vehicle began to move then, prompting him to hurry up the winding steps to the top deck to find a seat which meant he could get away with just offering the young woman a nod of thanks, not knowing what he could have possible said.

Years spent aboard ship meant that he was perfectly steady on his feet despite the fact that the bus was winding its way along the narrow roads, allowing him to make his way across to one of the empty seats. Sitting down he moved his kit bag so that it was resting between his legs, holding it in place with his knees, and then removed his cap long enough to apply the chin stay, a strip of fabric which looped underneath his chin and would keep it on his head.

Anna, it appeared, had chosen to sit in the sheltered area downstairs.

The journey passed by in series of a familiar sights, not much having changed since he last caught the bus from Ripon to Downton. He was certain that things must have looked a bit different during the war what with all the young men in uniform but now, three months after the armistice had been signed, it seemed that everything had returned to normal.

Well, so long as you ignored empty spaces which had been left behind by the number of young men who had gone to fight for their country, never to return to their loved ones.

“Are you in the Navy?”

“Patrick, hush,” the harassed mother scolded the child who had turned around to stare up at Thomas with a pair of enormous blue eyes. She turned to Thomas, “I’m sorry, he’s just…”

“It’s all right,” Thomas assured her, smiling down at the young boy who could be no older the four. And wasn’t that a sad thought, that this child had only known a life at war. “I was in the Navy, yes, but I’ve just been discharged and am on my way to take up my new post.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m returning to service,” he explained, offering the boys older brother a smile as he turned around as well. He’d always had a soft spot for children, for their innocence and total lack of prejudice. “I was a footman before the war, in service at Downton Abbey, and now I shall be working as valet to Mr Matthew Crawley who I served alongside on board _HMS Warrior_.”

“Our daddy was a soldier,” the older of the two brothers announced. “He was in France.”

“He never came home…”

Thomas was unsurprised to see tears well up in their mother’s eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured. “I’m sure your father was a very brave man.”

“He was.”

Their conversation was brought to a close by the bus arriving at their stop, halfway between Ripon and Downton, and the mother thanked him in passing as she nudged her children off of the bus. Thomas was then left alone for the remainder of his journey, leaving him to think about the sheer number of children that must have been left fatherless by the terrible war.

Arriving in Downton a short while later Thomas slung his kit bag over his shoulder once more, bounced down the winding stairs and stepped down onto the road, nodding to the conductress as he passed her. Anna, having been on the lower deck, had alighted some time before him and was already hurrying through the village towards the path that would take them through the woods to the Abbey. Pausing for a moment so as to light himself a fresh cigarette Thomas then allowed his feet to take him along the path he’d trod countless times.

As he emerged from the woods at the edge of the grounds he could see Anna ahead of him, ducking into the servant’s courtyard, and he knew that by the time he reached the servant’s door news of his arrival would have spread throughout the entire house, upstairs and down.

 _I suppose that saves me from having to announce myself,_ he chuckled silently to himself as he made his way across the pristine lawn, coming to an unexpected stop halfway between the woods and the house as his mind transported him back to the last time that he had been stood on that particular spot. It had been the day of the garden party. He had been trying to find a way to leave the Abbey after his schemes had left him on the wrong side of both Lord Grantham and Mr Carson. It had also been the day that war had been declared…

~ * ~ * ~

**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire  
4th August 1914 **

Thomas would never admit it but his face hurt; William threw a surprisingly strong punch.

He would also never admit that, yes, he probably had deserved it. He _had_ been being even more unpleasant than usual but he just couldn’t help it. He knew that they all despised him, not only for his actions but for what he was. Oh, they might claim ignorance but he could feel their judgmental looks upon his back just as he had felt them from his father as a child.

_“What a long-faced lot…”_

_“Kindly show some respect.”_

_“Come on, Mr Carson, she'll get over it. They're no bigger than a hamster at that stage.”_

_“Will you shut up?”_

Of course, Mr Bates’ interjection had just served to rile him up even further.

How he envied the other man, to be so loved that everyone would overlook his inability to do his job and allow him to hold such an important position within the household. To be thought well of no matter what he did, no matter if he deserved it or not. To be so _normal_.

_“I agree. What is the matter with you, Thomas?”_

_“I don't know. I suppose all this makes me feel claustrophobic,”_ he had defended himself to Mrs Hughes who he respected above everyone else. _“I mean I'm sorry, 'course I am, but why must we live through them? They're just our employers; they're not our flesh and blood.”_

_“Thomas, don't be so unkind.”_

_“Is there nothing left on earth that you respect?”_

William. His gaze snapped across to his fellow footman who, just like him, was sporting a nasty bruise on his face only unlike him everyone kept asking him if he was feeling alright.

No one cared it Thomas was feeling alright.

 _“Hark at him,”_ Thomas had laughed cruelly, needing to hurt the younger man who didn’t realise how lucky he was to come from a family that loved him, that actually gave two shits about him. Unlike Thomas who had been unwanted, unloved; his parents hadn’t wanted another boy after his brother Charlie. They’d wanted a girl. What they’d got was a boy who sometimes wished he’d been born a girl simply because it would have meant that his soul wouldn’t be doomed to hell for daring to love and lust after people of his own sex. After his sister, Violet, had finally come along he’d been ignored whenever he wasn’t being scolded, beaten or purposefully starved. It had almost been a relief to be thrown out onto the street on his fourteenth birthday. _“Blimey, if he carries on like this for the unborn baby of a woman who scarcely knows his name, no wonder he fell to pieces when his old mum snuffed it.”_

Yes, looking back he had _definitely_ deserved the punch that he been thrown his way.

_“William!”_

Deserving the punch didn’t mean he hadn’t been right to fight back, however; that was just instinct born of spending two years living on the streets begging for food and work. It was his second biggest secret and the only one that no one at Downton Abbey had managed to discover by themselves, the fact that before he’d found work as a Hall Boy at Brompton Manor he’d lived in the gutter and if he had his way none of them would ever find out.

They all looked down their noses at him enough as it was.

_“Thomas! William! Stop that! That is enough!”_

Branson had separated them as soon as Thomas had gotten the upper hand, pulling William away from him whilst Carson had taken it upon himself to shove Thomas out of the room.

Being outside of the room didn’t mean he hadn’t heard Branson’s declaration, however,

_“He had that coming.”_

“Thomas?” Daisy called out to him, drawing him back to the present moment. He found her holding a fresh tray of delicious looking pastries out to him. “Are you going to apologise?”

“Have I done something to you that I need to apologise for?”

“Not to me,” she muttered as he took hold of the tray. “William.”

Thomas let out a sigh, shaking his head, before heading back out towards the guests.

He had been hoping to speak to Dr Clarkson about the prospect of joining the _Royal Army Medical Corps_ as war now seemed inevitable, hoping that such a position would keep him away from the worst of the fighting, but he couldn’t see the older man amongst the guests.

“Anna?” he called out to the Housemaid as he passed her. “Have you seen Dr Clarkson?”

“He was called back into the village with an emergency,” she explained quickly as she hurried back towards the tent with a tray of empty glasses. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Damn.

He would have to head into the village to speak with the Doctor at the earliest opportunity.

Returning to his duties he caught sight of Branson running up to Lady Sybil whilst she was talking with two of her friends, leaning in to whisper something into her ear in a manner most unbefitting a servant, and he’d be lucky to keep his job if Mr Carson saw him like that.

And then they ran off together, Lady Sybil leading the way towards where Gwen was stood.

Darling little Gwen who wasn’t happy with a life in service.

“Mr Bromidge has rung!” he heard Lady Sybil exclaim even from the distance he was at, offering the tray to yet another ungrateful guest. “You've done it, Gwen! You got the job!”

 _Of course, she got the job,_ Thomas thought to himself bitterly as the Gwen handed off her tray so that the three of them could celebrate, clutching at each other’s arms and bouncing in place, _why wouldn’t they hire her? What with Lady Sybil Crawley herself vouching for her?_

He was pleased when he saw Mrs Hughes break up their happy moment.

Circulating with the trays he collected at sporadic intervals from Daisy, who kept stealing a few words with William every time he refreshed his own trays, Thomas watched the notable events of the extravagant garden party as they played out; Lady Mary sabotaging her sister’s chances with Sir Anthony Strallen, Anna and Mr Bates having a “tête-á-tête” in the catering tent, Lady Mary trying and failing to patch things up with Matthew Crawley, the Dowager Countess scolding her only daughter, Lady Rosamund, Mr Carson comforting Lady Mary…

Sometimes people watching was the only thing that could keep him going as he carried out the monotonous work that was required of a first footman at something like a garden party.

And then Mr Carson delivered an urgent telegram to His Lordship.

Thomas watched as his employers expression dropped as he read the words printed upon the small piece of yellow paper, his previous smile vanishing completely as he hurried out of the tent which had been erected to protect Lady Cora from the sun, calling out to everyone,

“Please, will you stop, please!”

The string quartet, hired for the event, stopped halfway through a bar.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Can I ask for silence?”

One by one every single guest and servant on the well-maintained lawn fell silent.

Thomas frowned.

What news could Lord Grantham have received that was so important?

Unless…

“Because I very much regret to announce that we are at war with Germany.”

War.

There was no saving the jovial mood of the garden party after that, several of the guests choosing to leave straight away in order to return to their own families, particularly those with sons of fighting age, and those that did stay talked of nothing but the oncoming war.

Lady Cora excused herself from the remaining guests, disappearing inside with Miss O’Brien, whilst Mrs Crawley hurried across the lawn to her son, resting her shaking hand on his arm and gazing up at him fearfully whilst he attempted to remain to stoic. Lady Sybil, continuing to do her duty of circulating amongst the guests, kept glancing across at where Branson was helping with the heavy lifting in the catering tent whilst Lady Edith had taken it upon herself to look after the Dowager Countess who looked more than a little bit shaken. Lady Mary, on the other hand, showed no emotion whatsoever as she moved to stand beside her father.

Thomas thought personally that His Lordship was about to be sick.

Eventually only the family were left, heading inside together, which left the servants to clear up. Thomas lost track of time, busy as he was carrying heavy trays back into the house, and by the time everything was cleared away it was time for the servants to have their dinners.

“I meant to ask, Thomas, what did you need to speak to Dr Clarkson about?”

Anna’s sudden enquiry brought complete silence as everyone turned to stare at him, some from out of confusion, others gazing with open curiosity. As for Thomas he paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, as he silently debated whether or not he should tell them the truth.

Eventually he cleared his throat, returning his fork to his plate as he answered,

 “I wished to enquire about joining the Medical Corps should there be a war.”

His announcement was met with even more confusion.

Well, apart from Mr Carson who looked rather pleased with his announcement, no doubt looking forward to getting rid of him without having to go through the motions of firing him.

“… _you_ want to join the _Army_?”

“The Medical Corps,” Thomas corrected Gwen’s statement. “I wish to join as a Medic.”

“I would have thought someone such as you might prefer the Royal Navy than the British Army,” Mr Bates announced, calmly piercing a piece of pork on his fork and scooping some of the rich gravy onto it with his knife. “I don’t know if Army life will suit you quite so well.”

The silence at the table took on an entirely different edge following the valet’s statement.

“I don’t know if I like what you’re implying, Mr Bates…”

“Only that your…skills as a footman would be much more appreciated on board ship,” Bates supplied his explanation calmly, his hesitation deliberate. Thomas bristled. Around the table gazes flickered back and forth between the two men. “Rather than on a violent battlefield.”

“That is quite enough,” Mr Carson interrupted before anything further could be said and for once Thomas was quite grateful for the butler’s interruption. His stomach felt like it was made of lead, turning him off of his food completely as he contemplated the fact that everyone was well aware of what Mr Bates had been implying; his sinful nature would be more at home at sea. “I will have no more talk of war at my dinner table. Everyone, finish your meals and then get on with your duties. It will be time for the family’s dinner shortly.”

“Yes, Mr Carson.”

Thomas couldn’t get Bates’ comments out of his head for the rest of the evening.

The words played over and over in the back of his mind, as did everyone’s reactions, the way they had stared at him and continued to stare at him. He’d known that they all knew or at least suspected his… _perversion_ …but to have it brought up in such a…a public fashion…

When, at long last, he was lying in his bed attempting to drift off to sleep Thomas couldn’t help but wonder if Mr Bates might actually be correct; would the Royal Navy be a better place for him? He didn’t possess a violent nature, had only ever fought to defend himself as per the situation with William, so the idea of being sent into battle genuinely worried him.

Perhaps…

Perhaps joining the Royal Navy wasn’t such a bad idea after all…

And so, ignoring Mr Bates’ smirk, that was exactly what he did.

~ * ~ * ~

 **A/N** Ok, so I know I should be writing my other stories rather than starting a new one but I couldn’t stop myself. Let me know what you think. Comments & Suggestions welcome. X


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

 **WARNING –** this chapter starts with a sex scene (Thomas/OC) but it’s nothing too graphic.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
CHAPTER TWO**

**HMS Warrior  
March 1916**

“I’ve never done anything like this before…”

Thomas grunted in response, unable to respond with actual words given that his talented lips were currently wrapped around a certain part of the breathless young officers anatomy.

This was probably a good thing, however, given that his immediate thought following the soft admission was a rather derogatory assessment of the Sub Lieutenants non-existent skills. It was _painfully_ obvious to Thomas that the boy, who didn’t look old enough to drink alcohol, was a complete and utter novice when it came to the so called _“sins of the flesh.”_

He doubted that the young officer had even lain with a woman before now, let alone a man.

Never mind.

Thomas was an _excellent_ instructor.

It didn’t take him long to bring the boy to his peak, smirking up at him as the young officer bit down on his knuckles to stop himself from crying out. His other hand had instinctively grabbed hold of Thomas by his hair not long after their “fun” had begun and on the heat of the moment his grip had tightened, keeping the older man’s head in place between his legs.

Not that Thomas had had any intention of pulling away from the feast that was offered up to him; he was on his knees for a reason, after all, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“…oh…oh my _goodness_ …”

Thomas smirked, pulling back and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I take it you liked that, then?”

A pair of grey eyes, dilated with arousal, met a pair of equally dilated green eyes although the cause of the latter’s response was the orgasm that their owner had just experienced.

 _“Liked it?”_ Sub Lieutenant Horace Greenaway repeated hoarsely. “Barrow, it was amazing…”

“I think given the circumstances you should probably call me Thomas, don’t you?”

“Thomas,” the young officer murmured bashfully, trailing his trembling hand over the older man’s shoulder as Thomas rose up to his full height, eventually allowing it to come to rest over his heart. I’ve never felt so…that was…it was unlike anything I’ve ever…I don’t know…”

Thomas, in a rare moment of sympathy, pressed a single finger to the younger man’s lips to silence him, putting an end to his flustered babbling before tucking a wayward lock of wheat coloured hair behind the Sub Lieutenants ear. His smooth cheeks flushed a deep red colour.

“Am I to assume that you’d be open to doing this again sometime?”

Eyes wide, heated, young Greenaway nodded without hesitation.

“And what about returning the favour?”

To make sure that his point didn’t get lost in translation Thomas took hold of Greenaway’s hand and brought it down to the bulb in his trousers, smirking as the young man gasped.

“I’ve never…”

“I know,” Thomas assured him. “But we all have to learn sometime. I myself learned from Michael Friars, the publican of my father’s favourite watering hole, when I was fourteen.”

“…you’ve known you were…like this…since you were fifteen?”

“I’ve known since I was eleven and realised that the thought of kissing Mary Stewart turned my stomach but the thought of kissing her brother, Fred, made my lips tingle,” he chuckled, noticing that even though he was blushing worse than ever the younger man hadn’t moved his hand away. In fact he appeared to be absentmindedly pressing against the hardness that Thomas had drawn his attention to. “What about you? When did you realise you were…?”

“I…” Greenaway hesitated for a moment before confessing. “I suppose I’ve always been this way but…but I thought nothing could come of it. I was raised to believe it was a sin against God. That it was _wrong_. And then I saw you in the Wardroom and I just _needed_ to kiss you.”

Well, if that didn’t flatter Thomas’ ego he didn’t know what else would.

“…just kiss?”

“Well, now that I know better, no not _just kiss_ ,” the young officer admitted, huffing out an embarrassed breath as he blinked up at Thomas. “And I suppose…yes, I’ll return the favour.”

Thomas was embarrassed himself by how little time it took for him to reach his own climax  once he’d instructed the naïve young man on precisely what he needed to do but he quickly reminded himself that it had been a while since he’d had anything more than his own hand.

He wasn’t at all surprised when the young officer gagged at the taste, spitting the mouthful he’d been given into the palm of his hand as he rocked back onto his heels, still kneeling.

“How could you swallow that?” he demanded softly, looking a little green. “Ugh! It’s _foul_!”

Thomas chuckled, handing the officer the hand towel which was hung from a hook on the wall beside the tiny mirror and over the equally tiny basin that Greenaway had been given to complete his daily ablutions at in his private, although it was admittedly tiny, cabin. Some of the officers truly didn’t realise how lucky they were; Thomas had to make do with the heads ¹ closest to where he and the other stewards strung their hammocks up every night.

It had taken him months to get used to sleeping in a hammocks rather than a bed but, given the motion of the ship, he had eventually realised that he had never had such a good nights sleep as when he was being gently rocked from side to side in his hammock. His things, such as his wash kit, his personal correspondence and the various articles of uniform he had been issued with, were kept in simple wooden lockers in the small room between the wardroom and the galley, a preparation room of sorts which only the stewards were permitted to use.

“You get used to it,” he reassured the younger man, glancing out of the porthole on the wall above the narrow bed. Another luxury not afforded to Thomas and his fellow stewards. He could see that the sun was beginning to set behind what he knew to be _HMS Defence_ , the ship that was anchored on their starboard side. _HMS Duke of Edinburgh_ was anchored on their port side and then _HMS Black Prince_ on the other side of them, putting the _1st Cruiser Squadron_ of the _British Grand Fleet_ in a neat little row. “What watch are you on today?”

Before Greenaway could answer the ships bell sounded, filtering through the ship thanks to the open hatches, portholes and the ventilation grates; eight clear bells in four sets of two.

An actual whimper escaped the officer as the colour completely drained out of his face,

_“This one!”_

Thomas cursed, reaching out to help the young man fix his uniform. If Greenaway failed to report for his watch someone would be sent to fetch him and Thomas was not in the mood to be exposed as a homosexual to his superior officers; he’d kept his secret for far too long to risk going to prison now. Working together they quickly got his trousers buttoned up, his shirt tucked in and his jacket and tie back on; thankfully he hadn’t removed his shoes during their encounter and, after pressing a quick kiss to Thomas’ lips he hurried out, grabbing his peaked officers cap on his way out. His footsteps thundered away from the cramped cabin, stumbling noticeably when they reached the ladder, and Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle.

He set about tidying up the cabin, putting everything back to rights whilst also sorting out his own uniform. Greenaway had made a complete mess of his hair and so he was forced to utilise the young man’s comb to smooth the ink black locks back into order; he had been given a regulation haircut when he’d enlisted but it had since grown back into something akin to his favoured style, shorter on the sides and longer on top which allowed him to either smooth it all back or give himself an off-centre parting depending on his preference.

As long as the longer sections were hidden underneath his cap no one cared.

Once both the cabin and his appearance had been returned to normal he poked his head out of the cabin, checked that the coast was clear and hurried his way through the ship to the wardroom, pausing to tug any creases out of his tight jacket before entering the room.

 

Thomas and his fellow stewards weren’t included in the watch system, much to some of their fellow ratings annoyance, as their duties took place on their own schedule. They did, however, use the bells to help them tell the time and this helped them know when it was time to prepare the wardroom for the officers meals or to be on hand to serve drinks, such as now. One duty which was less ordered was preparing teas and coffees for the officers of the watch; those orders could come at any time, day or night, and they had to be prepared.

“Ah, Barrow, perfect timing as ever,” Commander St John Collins, the second highest ranking offer on the ship, murmured cheerfully as he caught sight of Thomas. He was sat at the table which had hosted their evening meal a couple of hours previously, a letter open before him as he composed his response on a half-filled sheet of paper. “A sherry, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Following his basic training, during which he was initially chosen to become a stoker before his experiences as a footman had come to light and had thankfully seen him transferred to the stewarding branch, Thomas had joined the ships crew on Monday 4th January 1915 less than a month after the ship had joined the _Grand Fleet_. He had begun as just an ordinary steward, looking after the senior rates, but when Commander Collins had heard of his “prior training” in service he had quickly found himself promoted to the role of officers steward.

This move had suited Thomas perfectly and, despite being the most junior steward in terms of length of service, he had quickly become the first steward that the officers turned to. Of course, this had led to some resentment amongst his fellow stewards but Thomas had learned from his experiences in service and, rather than let that resentment fester as it had within him, turning him into a liar and a thief, he had done everything he could to befriend his colleagues. He had offered to teach them the little tricks he had learned as a footman which made certain tasks much easier, had helped them to complete tasks that they were struggling with such as when the Captain had needed his best uniform for an admiralty visit and the thing hadn’t been used in months leaving it in a terrible state. And it had worked.

“Here you go, Thomas,” Jenkins, the only other steward currently present in the wardroom murmured, handing him the bottle of sherry from the cabinet. Thomas nodded his thanks, retrieving a sherry glass from the top section of the cabinet which had been designed to store the delicate glassware they used, each glass held in place by a velvet covered strip of wood. “Go ahead and use the last of it. I’ll go fetch a fresh bottle from the quartermaster.”

Thomas snorted softly,

“Good luck with that.”

Their quartermaster, the person in charge of issuing out the ships supplies from the stores, was a notoriously “stingy bastard” and it was always a struggle to get anything from him. He took particular delight in torturing the youngest members of the crew, the boy sailors, and was known to make them all but beg for what they needed and would take his time getting the item just so that they would be punished for taking so long to complete their errands.

 _HMS Warrior_ , and indeed the entire _Grand Fleet_ , had been anchored at _Scapa Flow_ , in the _Orkney Islands_ , for the majority of the war. They were acting as a “distant blockade” or so the Admiralty called it, closing the narrows of the English Channel with torpedo boats whilst keeping the _Grant Fleet_ ready to put to sea from the north should the Germans threaten to break out. This meant that the ship was kept at a constant state of readiness and the crew were drilled regularly in their battle stations; all of the ships stewards were assigned to the Sick Berth in the event of the ship seeing action to act as orderlies and stretcher bearers.

If the papers were to be believed the blockade was working.

They had essentially placed the _German High Seas Fleet_ under house arrest, able to venture into the _North Sea_ but unable to make any meaningful input of the war. Vital supplies were kept from their enemy by their blockade, such as food and raw materials which included nitrates from South America which were essential for producing fertilisers and explosives.

This was, according to the newspapers, excellent news as, simply put, the fewer explosives they could make the fewer shells could be used against the brave men fighting in France.

“Here you are, sir,” Thomas murmured, carefully placing the glass of sherry on the table beside Commander Collins’ right hand. He had been careful not to overfill the glass lest it slosh over the rim as the ship was rocked by the ever active water upon which she sat. If the dark clouds were anything to go by they were in for a rough night. “Will that be all, sir?”

“For now, thank you, Barrow.”

Just as he was retreating to his usual spot where he could watch the entire room the door was flung open with enough force to sent it slamming into the wall, admitted one of the youngest Lieutenants who hurriedly removed his cap from his head; to be caught wearing ones cap in the wardroom resulted in the officer in question buying a bottle of port for the rooms occupants. Moray, the Lieutenant, was one of the Greenaway’s friends and had obviously just come off of watch, his cheeks bright red from the wind and his lips chapped.

“Barrow, thank goodness,” the young man sighed upon seeing him. “Cocoa, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hot drinks, such as cocoa, had to be prepared in the officers galley, located on the other side of the preparation room where Thomas’ locker was, and so he quickly left the room and made his way through to the almost deserted galley, the officers cooks having finished for the evening once the evening meal had been cleared away, leaving only one of the cooks mates at the sink scrubbing everything that he been used clean. Thomas, as an officers steward, had seniority and so ignored the other sailor as he moved to the small range to prepare the request cup of cocoa, warming the milk in a pan and adding the correct amount of cocoa powder. Once it was ready and he’d transferred the sweet smelling liquid into a mug he carried the pan over to the sink, finally acknowledging the cooks mate who nodded to him as he accepted the pan without question, adding it to his pile of things to wash up.

Although _HMS Warrior_ hadn’t participated in any there had been some skirmishes during the past two years, some further afield where the Admiralty had ordered them to round up and destroy Germany’s commerce raiders whilst others had taken place in the _North Sea._ The German Navy had attempted to isolate and destroy smaller British forces, a tactic which had been proven ill-advised and had effectively ceased following the _Battle of Dogger Bank_ on the 24th January 1915. According to the sailors that Thomas had spoken to who had been there the battle had been “clumsy” and “badly fought” with mistakes happening on both sides although, ultimately, the _British Battle Cruiser Fleet_ had emerged triumphant. They had managed to sink the _Blücher_ , one of the smaller enemy ships, and _HMS Lion_ had almost succeeded in destroying the _SMS Seydlitz_ , Vice Admiral von Hippers flagship, but she had been allowed to escape due to a signalling mistake on board the crippled _HMS Lion_.

“Your cocoa, sir,” Thomas announced as he slipped back into the wardroom, carrying the mug over to the young man who had placed himself in one of the two armchairs which were located by the small stove. Despite it being May it could still get bitterly cold most evenings, the weather in the _Orkney Islands_ not being known for its pleasant sunshine, and so the stove was kept lit almost as constantly as the ranges in the two galleys. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you, Barrow,” Moray sighed, blowing on his cocoa before taking a sip. “Perfect.”

Thomas had just settled into his usual spot once more when they heard the distinct sound of the pipe announcing that their Captain had returned from his most recent run ashore, the duty signalman cutting the “ _pipe the side_ ” off two seconds too early which would no doubt land him in trouble with the _Officer of the Watch_. A moment later the wardroom door swung open to admit the Captain himself, prompting the officers relaxing in the privacy of the room to rise to their feet and Thomas to snap to attention. Jenkins had yet to return.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Maurice Elliott addressed the room, tucking his own cap under his arm as he moved out of the way for the figure that followed him inside. Thomas felt his mouth drop open ever so slightly as he took in the familiar figure before him. “May I introduce our newest addition to our ranks, Lieutenant Crawley, recently of _HMS Caroline._ ”

Matthew _bloody_ Crawley.

What in heavens name was Lord Grantham’s heir doing here, of all places? Hadn’t he been all set to take a commission in the _British Army_ , or so Miss O’Brien’s last letter had claimed?

“I trust that you’ll get him well aquatinted with the old girl, gentlemen,” Elliott continued jovially, patting Matthew on the shoulder as the young man stepped forwards to shake the hand that Commander Collins offered to him, along with a soft introduction including his name and rank. “Barrow? Pot of tea to my cabin, please. I have some orders to go over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Barrow?” Lieutenant Crawley sputtered with surprise, turning to face the steward with his own expression of shock. “Good God, _Thomas_. This is the last place I expected to see you.”

“Nor I, you, sir,” Thomas admitted, aware that the rest of the officers were staring at him in confusion. “I was under the impression that you had intended to join the British Army, sir.”

“Yes, well…”

“…I wasn’t aware that the two of you had served together.”

“Oh, we haven’t, sir,” Matthew responded before Thomas could open his mouth, turning to smile somewhat sheepishly at Captain Elliott. “Thomas was a footman at my cousins house.”

“Before the war, sir,” Thomas added, just to make things perfectly clear. “I was first footman at _Downton Abbey_ for the Earl of Grantham. Lieutenant Crawley is the heir to the title, sir.”

“Ah, I see,” Elliott murmured, nodding. “Well, Crawley, I’m sure you’ll fit in well with our crew. Barrow. If you could rustle up some biscuits as well that would much appreciated.”

“Of course, sir.”

The atmosphere relaxed as the much respected Captain left the room, all of the officers present moving forwards to introduce themselves to the newest member of their crew.

Thomas followed the older man out of the room, nodding to Jenkins as they crossed paths, and ducked into the galley where the cooks mate was still hard at work. He had just put the battered old kettle on to boil when, much to his surprise, Matthew ducked into the room.

“Sir?” he enquired softly as he retrieved the Captains tea things from the cupboard; he had brought his own teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, cup and saucer with him from his families estate in Hampshire. “Was there something you needed? A tea, perhaps? If so I can bring…”

“Actually Thomas, sorry, Barrow, I was hoping to catch up with you a little.”

He made it sound as though they’d been friends before the war rather than one of the family and one of the servants, separated by more than just their wealth and positions.

“Catch up, sir?” he responded, taking down the Captains tray and setting things up the way that his Commanding Officer liked, aware of the way the cooks mate was staring. “How so?”

“Well, for starters, you’ll never guess where I’ve just been,” the newly promoted Lieutenant sighed, turning his cap over and over in his hands as he leaned back against the clean work top beside where Thomas was working. “I was given a spot of leave before joining the ship.”

Downton.

Home.

“I suppose it is much changed by the war,” Thomas murmured politely. “Is everyone well?”

“Actually, it was like stepping into an idyllic painting,” Matthew admitted softly, stealing a biscuit from the tin that Thomas had just retrieved from the cupboard. He grinned like a guilty school both when the steward shop him a well-practiced scowl. “Nothing much has changed. Yes, there’s more uniforms around the village and Robert has become attached to his old regiment again, in name only. They won’t be sending him off to war any time soon.”

“And Her Ladyship?” Thomas enquired. “Lady Mary and the others?”

“Lady Edith is learning to drive!” the Crawley heir burst out jovially, spraying a few biscuit crumbs out of his mouth as he did so. His cheeks flushed. “Apologies. But, yes, Edith is driving now and Lady Sybil has plans to take up nursing once she gets past her parents objections. Mothers on her side, of course, as is the Dowager Countess, most surprisingly.”

Thomas nodded in response, unsure of how he should respond verbally to that.

“Lady Mary is…unchanged,” Matthew continued, his voice becoming tight for the first time. Thomas couldn’t blame him. First the eldest Crawley sister had outright laughed about the prospect of marrying him, calling him a sea monster if Thomas recalled correctly. Then she’d all but thrown herself at him, motivated at least partially by her desire to secure her title and position, something that she stood to lose otherwise. Next she’d played him for a fool, flirting with him before turning her attention on other men right in front of him. And then finally shed acted the jilted party when he’d refused to even consider marrying her. “As is the Dowager Countess, still strong as ever. Lady Cora seemed a little bit fatigued, though.”

“Miss O’Brien wrote that she has been concerned for your safety, sir,” Thomas murmured, wishing that the water would hurry up and boil. Why was it that whenever he needed it to boil quickly it seemed to take an age and yet when he had all the time in the world it seemed to reach its boiling point in a matter of seconds. Drying off the last of the pots and pans he’d been scrubbing the cooks mate nodded respectfully towards first Matthew, then Thomas, before ducking out of the galley. “I haven’t heard from her in a while, though.”

“Have you managed to stay in contact with man of the servants?”

“Only Miss O’Brien,” Thomas admitted. “I was never very close to the others.”

“Ah.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, how did you come to end up in the navy?” he enquired, deciding to steer the conversation away from his former colleagues before he was forced to admit precisely _why_ he was never very close to them; his jealous nature, his rash decisions, his stealing, his lying, and most importantly his sexual orientation. Oh, none of them had ever outright said it, of course, but he’d been fully away of how much they disapproved of his inverted desires. “Because Miss O’Brien informed me that it was the Army for you, sir.” 

Matthew coughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “…I may or may not have joined the wrong queue at the recruiting office in Ripon and by the time I realised it was too late.”

“…you’re joking,” Thomas snorted, unable to stop himself. The way Matthew shifted his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels whilst flushing a red so deep it could have been purple was answer enough. He wasn’t joking. Thomas let out a deep chuckle, the kettle finally beginning to whistle, signifying that it had finally boiled. Taking the rag he lifted it off of the hob, took the lid off of the teapot and poured the hot water into the china receptacle. “I bet that caused some interesting conversations back at the Abbey when you told them…”

If anything Matthews flush deepened.

“…except you haven’t told them, have you?”

A shake of his head was the heir to the Crawley Estates answer.

“Well, I can’t blame you there, sir,” Thomas muttered, spooning a decent amount of the Captains tea leaves into the teapot, giving them a stir to get them diffusing nicely. “It might be best to keep it to yourself on-board ship as well, sir, at least until they’ve gotten to know you. Most of the officers are career chaps, grandparents served with Nelson and all that.”

“Did they really? Serve with Nelson, I mean.”

“Commander Collins’ great-grandfather was at the _Battle of Trafalgar_ , apparently, although he wasn’t aboard _HMS Victory_ ,” Thomas responding as he fetched a strainer, complete with its own miniature saucer, and added them to the tray. “Captain Elliott’s grandfather served with Nelson at the _Battle of the Nile_ but was invalided out of the Navy before _Trafalgar_.”

Matthew appeared to be genuinely impressed.

“Is this your first posting to a ship?”

“No. I joined up not too long after you did and until recently I was serving under Captain Browne aboard _HMS Caroline_ as a Sub Lieutenant,” Matthew cheerfully supplied, watching as Thomas filled the Captains milk jug up from the glass bottle kept in the cold storage box in the corner of the galley. “However upon receiving my promotion to Lieutenant I was awarded a transfer to _HMS Warrior_ which was only ship with a spot open, apparently...”

“So you’ve gone from one of the newest ships in the fleet to the oldest?” Thomas chuckled, artfully placing some of the biscuits on a small plate before returned the tin to its home. He then bent his knees and picked up the laden tray with practiced ease, keeping his back ram-rod straight to minimise his discomfort. “I’m not entirely sure if that’s a step-up or not, Sir.”

“If I’m honest, neither do I,” Matthew chuckled deeply. “Let me get the door for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, sir,” Thomas protested even as the Lieutenant moved to hold open the door for him, contorting his slim body so as to allow the steward to exit the galley without displacing anything he carried on the tray. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I should let you get on with your duties.”

They parted ways, Thomas delivering the tea tray to Captain Elliott’s cabin whilst Matthew returned to the wardroom to get to know his fellow officers by swapping stories with them about his time on board _HMS Caroline_. By the time Thomas returned to the wardroom the ships newest officer was ensconced in the other arm chair in front of the stove, sipping from what appeared to be a glass of port and laughing raucously as something Moray was saying.

“Did you really work for the new Lieutenant before the war?”

“I worked for his relations, the Earl of Grantham and his family,” Thomas murmured softly, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to him and Jenkins. “But, yes, I know him.”

“Small world.”

“Indeed.”

~ * ~ * ~

 **A/N** I had quite a lot of fun working some Naval History into this chapter so I hope it wasn’t too boring and factual in places for you. Now, I can’t decide who I want Thomas to end up with in this Alternate Universe I’ve created so I thought that, whilst I’m still in the early stages of planning/writing, I’d ask for people’s opinions on the matter. The options I’ve come up with are Thomas/Matthew, Thomas/Jimmy (although I’m not a personal fan of this pairing if people want it I’ll write it), Thomas/Andy or Thomas/OC. Sadly putting Thomas in the Navy means that I can’t use my favourite pairing (Thomas/Edward) as I can’t figure out how they would meet. So, comments and suggestions are genuinely encouraged this time. X

¹ - toilets

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

 **THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE** **  
CHAPTER THREE**

**HMS Warrior  
May 1916**

“Something’s up.”

Thomas, perched on one of the ships bollards with half a cigarette between his lips as he read the latest letter he’d received from Miss O’Brien, glanced up at Jenkins with a frown.

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Jenkins grumbled, nodding discretely to where a few of the ships younger officers were gathered further along the deck. “But whatever it is has got them all het up.”

A quick glance along the deck confirmed that he was right; each one of the officers wore expressions of barely contained excitement. Greenaway, he noticed, was all but vibrating.

“Huh. You know what, I think you might be right,” Thomas murmured, folding his letter back up and tucking it into his trouser pocket as he rose to his feet. “Something’s definitely up.”

It was then that they caught sight of the supply boat, a little tug which was also used to help the larger ships manoeuvre when needed, approaching the ship, heavily laden with crates.

Thomas paused, cigarette held an inch from his lips, smoke waiting to be exhaled.

They weren’t due to be resolved for another week.

“That’ll be the food and fresh water supply,” Lieutenant Commander Rivers announced, his voice getting carried by the ever present wind so that both stewards could hear him. “Good. Get that lot unloaded and stowed away before the ammunition supply arrives in an hour.”

Ammunition.

“Shit,” Thomas cursed, exhaling heavily as the junior officers responded appropriately to the order. Food, water and ammunition meant only one thing. “We’ve been ordered to sea...”

“Not just us,” Jenkins pointed out. “Look.”

He was right; several other supply ships were making their way out to the rest of the fleet.

“ _Shit_ ,” Thomas cursed for a second time as realisation dawned, his cigarette dropping from his fingers and falling into the sea. They had all been hearing rumours for the last week or so that the Admiralty were planning something, the Naval equivalent of a ‘ _Big Push_ ’, in order to stop the _German High Seas Fleet_ breaking free of the blockade and making it out to the _North Sea_. Such an engagement would require not only the ships of the _British Grand Fleet_ , _HMS Warrior_ included amongst them, but also the ships of the _Battle Cruiser Fleet_ which were moored at _Rosyth_.  His stomach clenched. “It’s happening. Fuck. It’s _really_ happening.”

“About time too,” Jenkins crowed loudly, his face split by an enormous grin as he turned away from the sight and headed towards the nearest hatch. “I’m going to tell the others.”

Thomas was in a minority for the next couple of days, wary of the oncoming engagement rather than excited to “finally getting to have a go at the stinking Huns” and his years of keeping his thoughts to himself as a servant came in handy once more; should the rest of the ships company learn of his reservations he would be labelled as “ _yellow_ ” and Thomas Barrow was many things but one thing that he refused to be seen as was a damned coward.

In the days following the arrival of the supplies letter writing became the most popular past time with every man on the ship sending letters to their loved ones. Some were happy to read them aloud to their friends before sending them, particularly those who were writing to their sweethearts, whilst others like Thomas chose to keep their correspondence private.

His letter to his family was brief, almost a formality as they hadn’t spoken in years,

 _I hope this letter finds you all as well as can be in these difficult times. I am currently serving aboard_ HMS Warrior _within the_ British Grand Fleet _as an Officers Steward. We expect to put to sea soon to face our enemy in glorious battle. I hope that if I should die in the oncoming engagement that you will finally be able to think well of me. Your son, Thomas Barrow._

He knew that the censors would probably take exception to him revealing his ship but if they wanted to remove it then they could do so; he was going to write what could possibly be his last correspondence precisely how he wanted to. His next letter was for Miss O’Brien,

_Dear Miss O’Brien,_

_This may very well be my last letter to you for quite some time._

_Due to some recent supply deliveries, specifically a lot of ammunition, and some overheard conversations amongst the ships officers we believe that the fleet shall soon be putting to sea to finally face off against our enemy. There is no telling when we shall actually set sail, it could be in a few hours or a couple of days, but I feel that it shall be sooner rather than later._

_I have never seen battle, therefore I only have what some of the others have told me to go on, and if what they say is even half true I wanted you to know that I always valued your friendship even though sometimes we ended up at odds. Whilst I hope for the best possible outcome of the oncoming battle I am not naïve enough to believe that if my time is up I shall be spared. I am not afraid of dying, rather of being forgotten, and so I have enclosed my best cap tally for you to keep as a memento of me and of our time together at Downton Abbey._

_Have a cigarette for me, if I don’t come back, and look after the clocks._

_Look after yourself, too; no scheming and making trouble just for the fun of it, you hear?_

_Your Friend,_

_Thomas Barrow  
HMS Warrior _

His letters finished he folded the thin sheets of paper carefully in half, slipped them into two identical envelopes, carefully addressed them, sealed them and then made his way through the ship to the small post box located at the quartermasters store. There he joined the short queue of other sailors and was eventually able to purchase two stamps and post his letters.

That done he turned to return to his duties only to halt at the sound of his name,

“Barrow!”

Turning he found himself facing Lieutenant Crawley, carrying half-a-dozen crisp envelopes, approaching from the opposite direction and obediently waited for the officer to reach him.

“Sir,” Thomas greeted him politely. “Was there something you needed?”

“I just wanted make sure that you and the other stewards are aware that today’s post shall be leaving the ship at 1500 instead of 1800,” the handsome young officer murmured softly. “It’s not supposed to be common knowledge yet but the fleet will be leaving port tonight.”

“Thank you for the forewarning, sir,” Thomas responded sincerely. “I’ve just posted my own letters home but shall endeavour to make sure the others get theirs in before the post goes.”

“Good. That’s good.”

He looked concerned, possibly even a little frightened, and Thomas couldn’t blame him.

“And you, sir?” he enquired, nodding down to the letters. “Do you need any stamps?”

“No, thank you, I have some,” Matthew responded softly, tapping his letters against the knuckles of his left hand. A quick glance confirmed that, yes, they already bore the required postage stamps. “I’ve included a Will, or what will serve as a Will, in my letter to Cousin Robert just in case. And I’ve sent a snapshot of myself and the other officers to my mother and one of just myself to Lavinia. She’s a…friend. We, um, we met before the war, before I moved to _Downton_ , and I bumped into her a few months ago when I had a weeks leave.”

It was amusing to see the future Earl of Grantham getting so flustered about a girl.

“I sent my best cap tally to Miss O’Brien,” Thomas admitted so as to spare the young officer any further embarrassment should he worry about revealing too much. “I don’t have any photographs of me so that was the next best thing. She was my only friend at _Downton_.”

“Surely not. You seem like a pleasant enough chap. Why only the one friend?”

“ _His Majesties Royal Navy_ is responsible for a great many changes in my behaviour and attitude, although some things are altogether incurable,” Thomas chuckled, puzzled by how natural the conversation was flowing between the two of them; and officer and a rating, a member of the family and a servant. “I’m afraid I was an altogether _unpleasant_ fellow bellow stairs, jealous and scheming. I wanted what I believed I was owed or deserved and took it rather poorly when others were elevated above me for no reason that I could see…”

“You mean Mr Bates,” Matthew concluded correctly. “You wanted to be Roberts valet.”

“I did. And at the time I hated the fact that I’d been passed over for an outsider,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as his cheeks burned with shame. “Having been away long enough to be blessed with hindsight I can see now that I wasn’t anywhere near ready.”

“Ah. I see,” Lieutenant Crawley hummed. “Hindsight. It’s a cruel thing, isn’t it?”

“It can be,” Thomas agreed. “But it can lead to some important lessons being learnt.”

“Indeed.”

After a long moment Matthew turned, posting his letters into the grey metal box mounted to the wall with a rectangular slit near the top, the word ‘ _POST’_ stamped below the hole.

Thomas assumed that was his cue to leave but had only gotten a few paces away before the officer caught up with him, following him through the maze of corridors that made up their ship, down a couple of decks via the vertical ladders upon which the black paint had been worn away by the men’s boots before finally speaking as they approached the wardroom.

“Do you know what I fear the most about the oncoming days?” he enquired softly, slowing to a halt, his words forcing Thomas to slow down with him. He couldn’t ignore a superior officer, could he? “Submarines. How can we be expected to fight what we cannot see?”

Submarines, like that which had sunk the _RMS Lusitania_ back in 1915, terrified most sailors.

It was said that at the outbreak of war Germany had only had twenty submarines available for combat whilst the _Royal Navy_ had possessed seventy four. The difference, sadly, was that whilst the German _U-Boats_ , as they were called, possessed the range and speed needed to operate effectively around the entire British coast the _Royal Navy’s_ ships possessed what could only be described as ‘mixed effectiveness’ in terms of range, speed and effectiveness.

“They’re visible when they’re on the surface,” Thomas pointed out, rather unnecessarily. “We shall just hope that when we come across one they aren’t below the waves, that’s all.”

He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

Submarines, with their open, underhanded warfare, scared him just as much as anyone else.

They had appeared in the _Atlantic_ first, attacking _HMS Monarch_ only four days after the declaration of war whilst she had been on manoeuvres with _HMS Ajax_ and _HMS Orion_. It hadn’t been an overly successful first attack, or so the stories told, with the _U-Boats_ torpedo failing to hit the battleship and had succeeded only in putting the three ships on their guard.

At dawn the next morning, or so a rather drunken sailor had once told Thomas whilst on shore leave, _HMS Birmingham_ of the _1st Light Cruiser Squadron_ had sighted a _U-Boat_ sitting idle and unprotected on the surface. According to the sailor the _U-Boat_ hadn’t even had any lookouts posted, allowing them to approach unchallenged, and then they’d been able to hear the sounds of hammering leading them to believe that the crew were making repairs.

 _HMS Birmingham_ had rammed the _U-Boat_ , cutting it in half, and had sunk it with all hands.

The, albeit unsuccessful, attack had caused the _Royal Navy_ an understandable amount of uneasiness as it disproved all of the earlier estimates as to _U-boats_ ' radius of action and left the security of the _Grand Fleet's_ unprotected anchorage at _Scapa Flow_ open to question.

 _HMS Pathfinder_ had eventually been the first ship to be sunk by a _U-Boat_ on 5th September 1914, her magazine apparently exploding after being struck by a torpedo. She sank in only four minutes, a terrifyingly quick time, and of the crew 259 souls went down with her. Less than a month later three of the oldest armoured cruisers in the fleet, _HMS Aboukir, HMS Cressy,_ and _HMS Hogue_ , had been sunk by a single submarine with a loss of 1,460 sailors.

 _HMS Hawke_ , an old cruiser, had been sunk three weeks later.

Thomas could recall the wave of alarm that had swept over everyone as he worked to complete the basic training required of him before he could take up his first posting.

The sinking’s had caused alarm within the _Admiralty_ , which had been becoming increasingly nervous about the security of the _Scapa Flow_ anchorage according to the ever present rumour mill, and the fleet was sent to ports in Ireland and the west coast of Scotland until adequate defences were installed at _Scapa Flow_. Their concerns had, almost inevitably, been proven well founded when, on 23rd November 1914, a _U-Boat_ had penetrated _Scapa Flow_ via _Hoxa Sound_ , following a steamer through the boom and entering the anchorage with little difficulty. Thomas and his fellow recruits had spoken at length about how the Germans must have reacted when they found the fleet to be absent. The _U-Boat_ was spotted whilst it was attempting to make it back out to open sea, or rather their periscope was spotted by a guard boat, the _Dorothy Gray_ , who proceeded to ram it, rendering the periscope unserviceable. The _U-Boat_ then suffered some mechanical issues, or so it was assumed, and the ships captain had been forced to surface and scuttle his command.

There had been much celebrating after that.

Of course the celebrating had ended when _HMS Formidable_ was sunk on 31st December.

“I can only hope that, if we do get targeted by a submarine, they manage a clean hit and were killed before we can realise what’s happened,” Matthew uttered, his voice sincere as his gaze became distant. “At least we can fight back against other ships if we’re attacked.”

Thomas could only grunt in agreement.

“Would you mind making me a strong cup of tea, Barrow?”

“Of course not, sir,” Thomas agreed. “I’ll bring it through to you.”

“Thank you, Barrow.”

The _U-Boats_ didn’t just attack ships of the _Royal Navy_ of course.

As an island they relied on imports and exports to survive and so, in retaliation to the _Royal Navy’s_ blockade of German held ports, they had begun to attack unarmed merchant ships.

And it wasn’t just merchant ships, Thomas thought to himself as he stepped into the galley to prepare Lieutenant Crawley, thinking back to the day he’d heard that a hospital ship, the _Asturias_ , had been torpedoed despite being clearly marked. Thankfully the torpedo missed.

And, of course, the _RMS Lusitania_.

The Germans had had the audacity to publish a written warning to the passengers of the ocean liner, a ship which should never have been considered a target in the first place, in fifty American newspapers. A copy of the warning had been published in English papers too. 

**NOTICE!**

**TRAVELLERS intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.**

**IMPERIAL GERMAN EMBASSY  
Washington, D.C., 22 April 1915.**

No one, not even Thomas, had believed they would actually go through with their threat.

But they had and 1,198 innocent people had lost their lives.

“Is that tea your making, Thomas?”

“Yes, for Lieutenant Crawley.”

“Any chance you could make two more?” Hudson, one of the youngest officers stewards who tended to get flustered about the simplest thing. “Greenaway and Barrett asked for some but I’m absolutely desperate for the toilet. Not too strong and one sugar for Barrett?”

Thomas huffed as the boy as he bounced on the spot like a child who needed the loo.

“Go on,” he muttered. “But make sure you hurry back. And tell the others that the post is going at 1500 today as there’s a good chance we’ll be putting out to sea sometime tonight.”

“ _Tonight_?”

“Tonight.”

“Oh. I’d better write a letter to my mum…”

“I thought you needed to use the head*…” Thomas pointed out whilst reaching into the cupboard to retrieve three cups and saucers instead of just the one he had been intending to grab, frowning across at the silent young steward. “Otherwise you can do this yourself.”

“No, no, I do…” Hudson mumbled, flustered. “I just…I’ll…”

Trailing off he turned and hurried out of the busy galley, causing the cooks who were busy preparing the officers lunch on the other side of the room to snort loudly to each other.

Thomas couldn’t help but wonder, not for the first time, how the other man had become an officers steward when he couldn’t even act his own age half the time, always needing help.

Going through the motions of making the three requested cups of tea Thomas’ mind strayed back to the subject of submarines, or more specifically the German _U-Boats_. As far as he was aware there wasn’t currently any way of detecting the ships once they’d dived and surface detection was the same as with all other ships; it was up to the ships lookouts to spot them.

And in terms of countermeasures should they be attacked by a submarine, well, if it was on the surface they could shoot at it. That was fine. If it was underwater but they could see its parachute then they could either use the periscope to target their guns or ram the ship. If it was completely submerged, however, their best countermeasure was to plot a sharp, erratic course so that they couldn’t target them with their torpedoes and attempt to outrun them.

Unarmed merchant ships, of course, only had two options; ram or run.

Placing the three steaming cups of tea on one of the circular trays with a prominent edge he made his way into the wardroom, moving carefully around the room to deliver each tea to the correct individual as the three teas were rather different from one another. He had just placed the last cup and saucer down on the table in front of Greenaway when the Captain stepped into the wardroom and everyone sprang to attention, either standing or sitting.

“At ease, gentlemen,” he murmured, glancing around the room. “Barrow. A coffee, please.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As he was stepping out of the wardroom, carrying the empty tray at his side he heard the beginnings of what evidently a rehearsed speech from his Captain to the ships officers,

“Gentlemen, I have just received confirmation that the rumours were true. It is time for us to go hunting. We shall be catching the late tide and leaving _Scapa Flow_ along with the rest of the _Grand Fleet_ under the command of Admiral Jellicoe and heading for the _North Sea_.”

He later learned that it wasn’t just the _British Grant Fleet_ that set sail that evening, _HMS Warrior_ hauling up her anchor and starting up her engines at the designated time so that they could take their place in the formation of the _1st Cruiser Squadron_ and leave the safety of _Scapa Flow_. The _Battle Cruiser Fleet_ , under Admiral Beatty, left _Rosyth_ at the same time.

Would they ever return?

He honestly didn’t know.

And as he stood watching the familiar landscape disappear behind them as the powered on towards the open waters of the _North Sea_ he couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease as darkness descended, the ships lights having been doused so that they wouldn’t be spotted by the enemy leaving only the moonlight to guide them. He could hear the other ships, the sound of their engines filtering over the sound of their own to create and constant rumble.

Thomas had no way of knowing as he stood smoking his cigarette that life as he had known it would be irrevocably changed by the events which would take place the following day. He had no idea of knowing that the 31st May 1916 would change the course of the entire war.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I apologise that this was pretty much a filler chapter with a tiny bit of interaction between Thomas and Matthew and an essay on early submarine warfare slipped in. It was necessary to bridge from the last chapter to the beginning of the battle which takes place in the next chapter. I would like to thank everyone who responded to my last chapter with their pairing requests; thanks to you I now know where to take this story. So, with the most amount of requests, Matthew/Thomas is the endgame but we’re going to have some fun before we get there. I am also planning to include Matthew/Lavinia as I liked her way more than Mary. Don’t worry, it will all make sense when I reach that particular point. Comments and suggests are more than welcome. Until next time my lovely readers. Marblez. X

* head/heads = toilets/lavatories in the _Royal Navy_

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
CHAPTER FOUR**

**HMS Warrior  
31st May 1916**

It was a sight to behold, of that he was sure, Thomas thought to himself as he carefully made his way up to the bridge with a tray of steaming hot tea for the Officers on duty.

There were ships as far as the eye could see, the _Grand Fleet_ displayed in all its glory, all of them steaming in perfect formation, their funnels belching columns of black smoke as they pushed their engines as hard as they dared in order to meet up with the _Battlecruiser Fleet_.

He, just like every inexperienced new seaman on board one of these impressive creations, had once envied the stokers who had seemed to be paid more than the rest for doing what appeared to be a simple job; delivering coal from the stokehold to the boilers. Now, two years later, he didn’t envy them one bit, particularly not with such a difficult day ahead of them. They weren’t unskilled labourers, quite the opposite in fact. Unlike their merchant counterparts who could bank their boilers just as one would a fire, building up the steam over time and keeping it going at a steady pace, the stokers of a ship such as _Warrior_ had to be able to get up steam rapidly and then vary the amount of steam as they changed speed in order to allow the ship to manoeuvre. This meant that the coal had to spread carefully across the bed of the boiler and the steam pressure had to be continuously monitored.

Stokers, he now informed anyone who asked, were just as skilled as he, a steward was.

“Ah, good,” Captain Elliott sighed with obvious relief, straightening up from where he had been bent over the chart table as he caught sight of Thomas. Around him his senior officers, who had also been studying the charts, copied his actions. “Gentlemen, Barrow brings tea.”

“Indeed I do, sir,” Thomas confirmed, stepping onto the bridge and moving across to the gaggle of officers. “Yours is the mug nearest my right hand, sir. Just a hint of milk and two sugars. Then, Commander Collins, that one is yours. No milk, not too strong, slice of lemon.”

He proceeded to distribute the teas, each one made to the officers specific tastes, finishing with Lieutenants Greenaway and Crawley, the most junior officers currently on the bridge.

“Milk with one for Lieutenant Greenaway. Milk with none for Lieutenant Crawley.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t have our orders written down somewhere, Barrow?” Commander Collins chuckled as he blew lightly on his tea. “None of the others can remember all of that.”

“Years of practice, sir,” Thomas responded with a smile, tucking the tray into his chest as he made his way back towards the door, or rather the hatch. “This is nothing compared to–”

“Flags, sir!” the young voice of one of the men on watch cut him off. “On _Defence_ , sir.”

“Crawley?” Captain Elliot hummed, gesturing for the Lieutenant to investigate. “Well?”

“Message from Admiral Jellicoe,” Matthew translated the flags which had been hoisted as was his job as a signals specialist. “Assume complete readiness for action in every aspect.”

A hush fell upon the bridge following his announcement.

Thomas froze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the tray much too tightly.

“The day has finally come, gentlemen,” Captain Elliot finally broke the silence, turning to address the entire room, small as it was. “Finally we shall be given the chance to give the Hun a damned good thrashing as only the Royal Navy can. Gentlemen, drink up your tea and prepare the ship for battle readiness. Just as we’ve practiced, no need to panic the men.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As one the officer gulped down their tea, only a couple of them struggling with the heat of the liquid, and Thomas stumbled forwards, his movements uncharacteristically stilted, to collect the empty mugs on his tray. It was 1500, he noticed out of the corner of his eye as he waited for the last of the mugs; what would the next six, twelve, twenty-four hours hold?

“Thank you, Barrow,” Matthew murmured, placing his mug on the tray. He was the last despite not having had any trouble gulping it down. No, he’d waited purposefully so that he would be the last. “Best get to your station now. And Barrow, look after yourself, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas responded. “And, sir? You’d best look after yourself too.”

Matthew offered him a tight smile and an equally tight nod in return before they went their separate ways, Thomas hurrying back through the ship to the galley where he dumped the entire tray in the sink, heedless of whether or not any of the mugs were damaged. What did a couple of mugs matter when there was a good chance they’d all end up on the bottom of the sea before the day ended? They didn’t, that’s what, and if by some minor miracle they managed to survive the battle unscathed he’d worry about what state they were in later.

Much later.

As a steward his battle station, or action station as it was sometimes called, was in the ships sick berth where he would work either as an attendant or as a stretcher bearer, whichever he was assigned to given the situation. It had made him smile back during basic training when they’d been informed of this particular fact; it seemed that even though he hadn’t been able to join the _Royal Army Medical Corps_ he would still be doing the job he’d wanted.

Admittedly he’d wanted to join the _RAMC_ in order to stay away from the fighting but still…

“Ah, Barrow, good,” Crabb, the senior of the three surgeons aboard _Warrior_ rumbled when he stumbled into the room to join his fellow stewards. “That’s everyone. Foster and Moore. Jenkins and Barrow. You’ll be our stretcher bearers for today’s action. Roper, you’ll be my attendant. Whiting, you’ll be Budge’s attendant and Kettle, you’ll be Wright’s. Everyone else will operate as general attendants once the wounded start coming in. Right, get this place battle ready, gentlemen. I want everything cleared or secured, prepped and ready to use.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

They worked together with practiced ease, completing the tasks which they had trained for, and in less than half-an-hour the sick berth was as ready as it could possibly be. There were four permanent beds, set up as two pairs of bunks, with an open metal frame for ease of access although Thomas didn’t look forward to lifting someone into the top bunk given how high up it was. Added to this there were a dozen temporary beds which they had built all around the room and, should the need arise, hammocks. The stretchers were collapsible and were stood up just outside the door leading into the sick berth. Despite having three surgeons on boards there was only one operating table, if it could be called that, which could be hidden behind a curtain if the need arose. A tin bath, sink and toilet were all crammed into one corner of the room, again with a curtain for modesty, and the walls were lines with cupboards of equipment and supplies which were normally locked to prevent theft but had now been secured on the latch, keeping the items safe but readily available.

A mop of and bucket, along with a stack of empty bucket, sat in the corner of the room.

These, Thomas knew, would be used to clean up the blood, to collect the soiled bandages or, as they had been warned was an unfortunate likelihood, to hold the limbs which had to be removed. It would no doubt fall to young Keene, the so called ‘boy servant’ and youngest amongst the stewards at just sixteen-years-old, to man the mop and the buckets. Poor sod.

 _Warrior_ , as part of the _1st Cruiser Squadron_ , was under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Robert K. Arbuthnot who had chosen _HMS Defence_ as his Flagship many years ago. It was _Defence_ , therefore, that headed their line of ships as the journeyed slightly ahead of the main bulk of the fleet, holding a screening position. _Warrior_ was second in the line of ships and behind her was _HMS Duke of Edinburgh_. Bringing up the rear was _HMS Black Prince._

“Thomas,” Jenkins muttered, moving to join Thomas at the railing on the walkway outside of the external door to the sickbay where he and several of the others had been watching the fleet. This door was to be kept clear during the battle; the stretchers therefore were leant outside the internal door. Not that they’d be there during the battle. “Cigarette? Thomas?”

“Thanks,” Thomas muttered, drawing his gaze away from the ship five miles or so behind them which he believed to be _HMS Iron Duke_ , Admiral Jellicoe’s Flagship. She was a beast of a ship, a dreadnought battleship only four years old and named for the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, with an armament and armour to match. Unlike _Warrior_ she had only one watch tower and two funnels, _Warrior_ herself possessing four funnels and both a fore and aft watchtower, and her overall design was more sleek, less block like. And yet, if Thomas had to choose he’d probably still prefer to be aboard _Warrior_. The old girl had character, a charm that some of the newer ships were lacking. Of course, if they could take _Iron Duke’s_ engines and transplant them into Warrior that would be fantastic. “Might be our last ones.”

“Bit negative,” Jenkins muttered, using his lighter to get both his and Thomas’ cigarettes going, rubbing his thumb over the engraving on the metal case before pocketing it again. A particularly deep swell cause them to plant their feet as the ship rocked. “We could be fine.”

“Could be,” Thomas agreed, mimicking a ships funnel as he calmly blew out a long plume of smoke, tilting his face up towards the sky. Beside him Jenkins, a bit of a show off, blew his out in rings. “Either way, I think these will have to tide us over for the immediate future. I don’t know about you but they frowned upon taking a fag break when I went through my battle simulations during basic, said something about it being and inopportune moment.”

Several of their group snorted loudly, most of them also smoking one last cigarette.

Even the surgeons, also getting a breath of fresh air before the chaos, chuckled softly.

“Can’t think why…”

It was just then that they heard the unmistakable sounds of a gun being fired, somewhere not too far from them although because it was coming from somewhere on the starboard side of their ship they on the port side couldn’t see the owner of the gun, and a moment later heard the corresponding awesome thunder of an explosion as the shell hit its target.

Or what they presumed had been its target.

“This is it, then,” someone muttered seriously. “The battles begun.”

Truthfully the battle had been going on for some time, the focus had simply been on the _Battlecruiser Fleet_ which had only now reached the _Grand Fleet_ , bringing with them the Germans. What they were witnessing, albeit by hearing alone, was a portion of the battle which would one day be referred to as the ‘run to the North’ and eventually when the ships finally came into sight of their small group they witnessed Rear-Admiral Hood, commanding the _3rd Battlecruiser Squadron_ from his flagship, _HMS Invincible_ , doing considerable damage to the light cruisers of the _German 2nd Scouting Group_. It was a terrifying thing to witness.

It would be an even more terrifying thing to be a part of.

“We’re turning,” Thomas realised suddenly, and indeed the ship gave a corresponding lurch as its helm was swung hard to port, following an almost identical path to that of _Defence_. A cry escaped someone as their new direction of travel cut directly across the path of _HMS Lion_ , Admiral Beatty’s Flagship, at the head of the _1st Battlecruiser Squadron_. The larger ship, who had obviously already been in action with her German counterparts, was forced to alter her course lest she ram into them, passing within 200 yards of _Warriors_ stern in a move which saved the cruisers but sacrificed her own ability to fire with the rest of her squadron as her vision of the enemy fleet, her target, was suddenly blocked by the smoke from the cruisers smoke. “ _Bloody Hell!_ What was that? Where’s that blasted fool taking us?”

“Careful,” Crabb muttered. “That’s no way to speak of your commanding officer.”

“I didn’t mean Captain Elliot,” Thomas responded. “I mean Arbuthnot.”

“Still…”

“We’ve lost _Duke of Edinburgh_ and _Black Prince!_ ” Keene cried out in his as-yet-unbroken voice, sounding almost like a screech as he pointed back at where the other two ships of their squadron should be. “They can’t mean for the two of us to take them on alone?!”

Shells were flying overhead in both directions, the battle cruisers of each fleet attempting to inflict serious damage upon the other. And now, thanks to what felt like pure recklessness on behalf of the man running their squadron, they were stuck in the middle of it all with no where to go but towards their enemy. If Thomas had doubted their chances of surviving the battle before those doubts tripled, no, increased tenfold now that they were sitting ducks.

“This is insane…”

“Pipe down, now,” Crabb ordered, silencing the group of stewards with the command. “I’m sure Admiral Arbuthnot knows precisely what he’s doing. I’m sure he has a plan laid out.”

Thomas snorted, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath,

“Sure, like a puppy has a plan when it chases a squirrel up a tree…”

Shells were falling all around them, each one having fallen short of their intended target and splashing into the sea, some missing them only by the narrowest of margins. One landed so close that they had to move back to avoid the spray of icy water caused by the explosion.

Thomas wasn’t the only one to let out a few choice swear words.

Every other ship they could see was doing everything they could to stay out of the area they were steaming into, seemingly at full speed, and Thomas couldn’t blame them; he imagined this was what the poor goldfish at a county fair felt like when people threw rings at them.

They were by far the easiest target for any of the Germans to aim for and they were only getting closer, putting them all the more in range of even the smaller enemy vessels guns.

“We’re slowing,” someone announced, stating the obvious before leaning as far as he could over the railing to peer around the _Defence_ ahead of them. “I think there’s another ship...”

It was a little after 1800 when time seemed to stop if only for a moment.

There had indeed been a ship ahead, Thomas would later learn that it was the crippled _SMS Wiesbaden_ , and _Defence_ engaged with the hopes of sending her and her crew to the depths.

Instead they watched, slack-jawed and utterly helpless, as three shells struck the water on either side of the _Defence_ before inevitably two found their mark, striking her amidships.

And then she was gone, her magazines going up with a massive explosion.

Water and debris rained down on the wreckage of the ship, bits of men and ship alike, and then between one stunned breath and the next the wreckage had slipped below the waves.

 _HMS Defence_ was no more.

She had gone down with all hands, 903 men and officers gone in the blink of an eye.

Keene whimpered loudly,

“That’s…that’s not possible…”

It was.

It was entirely too possible.

They’d just watched it happened.

And, Thomas realised with growing dread as he watched the small pieces of wreckage floating in the water, there was only one possible outcome for their immediate future.

 _Warrior_ , now a lone ship trapped between the two fleets, was next.

“Bloody hell…”

The tell-tale sound of a shell being fired filled the air and, without even being able to see which ship it had come from though the thickening smoke, he knew where it was headed.

Everyone around him froze, waiting, and then…

~ * ~

 **A/N** Sorry. I’m sorry for the nasty ending and the slightly shorter chapter but it just played out that way. And for the delay getting this chapter out. Been doing so research into Jutland and the Navy in World War One as a whole. It’s a fascinating and highly underrated piece of history. Hopefully the next chapter shouldn’t take quite so long to get out. Marblez x


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
** **CHAPTER FIVE**

**HMS Warrior  
31st May 1916**

Lurching to one side as the entire ship shuddered as another she’ll breached the damaged armour plating, exploding somewhere along the port side, Thomas grunted in pain as his shoulder slammed into the bulkhead but managed to keep a hold of the stretchers handles.

They’d been taking heavy fire for almost fifteen minutes, ever since they’d watched _Defence_ vanish before their eyes, and the stretcher bearers hadn’t had a moments pause since. Nor had anyone else, for that matter, as the crew desperately tried to save _Warrior_ from sharing their lead ships fate. Her wooden deck was aflame, spreading rapidly despite the sailors best efforts, and below decks there were more fires, most worryingly in engineering where they were just coming from with a badly burned casualty, and heavy flooding towards the bow.

“You alright?” Jenkins called out over the noise of one of _Warriors_ guns firing. “Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, grunting once more as he nodded for Jenkins to keep moving.

They needed to get their casualty to the surgeons before it was too late…

Strangled cries of pain sounded as another shell struck the ship, this one landing between the two 7.5 guns amidships on the starboard side, the deadly projectile ripping away the gun shield of the aft gun. Bodies were thrown into the air, two almost going overboard, but even as they glanced back at them some began to stir, pulling themselves back to the guns.

Thomas’ shoulders were killing him, from both the strain of carrying the stretcher and the knock he’d just taken, but he ignored it. He’d worry about his pain later if they managed to survive to see another day. Hurrying into the sick berth Jenkins barked for them to clear the operating table which currently held a sailor who was in process of being sewn up following an amputation of his arm. The surgeon went to protest until they saw their latest patient.

“Move him!”

Once the swap had been made and two of the surgeons were focused on the burned sailor, the third continuing to stitch up the man who was now lying on one of the temporary beds, Thomas and Jenkins had enough time to grab a drink of water from the cup that Keene held out to them before heading out once more to face whatever was in store for them. The boy was weeping silently, tears making tracks through the blood and soot which had made its way onto his cheeks as he cleaned up after the men that had been brought in and treated, but his hands were steady. He’d grown up, Thomas realised sadly, had lost his innocence.

They all had.

None of them would emerge from this day as they had entered it.

Injured or not every man would be changed, should they survive.

It was a sobering thought even amidst the heat of battle.

He would never look upon the world the same way.

Every smell would be compared to the scent of cordite or burning tar or sweat or blood or…

Every colour would be brighter or duller than the sky, the sea, the sparks of an explosion…

Every man would be taller than the burned, thinner than Jenkins, younger than Keene...

Every sound would be quieter than an explosion, louder than metal tearing, softer than…

“Thomas!” Jenkins barked at him. “Get it together! There’s men that need us!”

He hadn’t even realised that he’d stopped moving, staring out towards the German fleet through the thick cloud of smoke, a mixture of engine smoke and that which was being given off by the fires. Snapping his head around he nodded, once, in to reassure his friend.

A horrific explosion came from the back of the boat, rocking the entire vessel so much that the two of them bounced off of the metal railings with twin grunts of pain. They were in the process of getting their feet back under them when a harried messenger ran passed them.

“The aft dressing stations been hit!”

Wright, the most junior of the surgeons, had been sent to man the aft dressing station along with Kettle, his attendant after the _Defence_ had been hit when they realised how bad it was going to be, taking with them a couple of stewards to help. It was intended to be a place for the walking-wounded to be treated and returned to duty, leaving the sick berth free to tend to the more serious casualties. And if it had just been hit then things just a whole lot worse.

“They’re dead! They’re all dead! They _have_ to be! No one could survive that!”

Jenkins, who was good friends with Archibald “Archie” Kettle, looked particularly horrified.

At one point Thomas had suspected that the two were in a romantic relationship, spending almost all of their off-duty time together, but it had turned out that both from Portsmouth, had been married for a number of years and had been “blessed” with a gaggle of children each. It turned out that their free time was spent sharing stories of their families back home.

“Do you think we should…?”

“Keep to your duties,” a panicked looking Budge ordered before Thomas could even think of some kind of a response, shouldering his way past them with Jeffrey Whiting following close behind. “We’re going to check on the dressing-station. Keep helping the men; both of you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

They passed Lieutenant Greenaway on their way to the guns which had been hit.

Thomas’ young lover was manning one of the larger 9.2 guns. His cap was missing, a cut on his temple disappearing into his hairline was bleeding profusely, and yet he continued to work, mucking in with the men in his gun crew to replace those that had been injured. He was another soul who had been forced to grow up since this battle for their lives had begun.

Both of the guns had been taken out of action, one having been literally ripped apart at the same it had lost its gun shield, and the crew members who had been able to had gone to assist the crews of the other guns which were still firing. Working as quickly as they could Thomas and Jenkins transferred the injured to the sick berth, retracing their footsteps as best they could, until it seemed that they had cleared everyone from the area apart from those who had already succumbed to their injuries. It wasn’t until they turned to leave that they noticed the legs protruding from underneath the gun shield, the large piece of metal obviously having landed on someone after it had been blown out of its intended position.

A fire was already spreading towards the figure, spreading across the deck like a menacing snake. Dropping their stretcher onto the deck the two stewards hurried to the poor soul, intent on checking to see if they had survived the initial hit before attempting to free them.

Thomas wasn’t conscious of the strangled sound that escaped him when he caught sight of the sailors face, nor of the fact that he dropped down to his knees as he called out sharply,

_“Mr Crawley!”_

Matthew’s eyes fluttered, more than enough to confirm that a rescue was required.

His hands moved without conscious thought, taking hold of the metal and tugging.

It shifted, the weight unevenly distributed as it was, but Thomas reared back with a sharp hiss, blowing on his hands to cool them; the metal was dangerously hot already thanks to the fire which had engulfed the end of the shield which wasn’t crushing the Crawley heir.

“Thomas?”

“It’s nothing,” he reassured Jenkins quickly, glancing away from the blood he could see on Matthew’s lips, splattered as though he’d coughed it up. “I’m fine. Let’s get this off of him.”

“Can you lift it by yourself?”

“Yes, I should be able to,” Thomas confirmed. “I just need to…”

Glancing around them his eyes fell on the bodies of two sailors who hadn’t been lucky enough survive the shell which had landed between the guns. Hurrying over he set about pulling at their tunics, exposing where the lines from their blue collars were tied around their waists to hold the collars onto their tunics. Releasing the knots he then wound the starched blue fabric around his hands, securing them with the lines as best as he could.

“Once I get it off of him you need to pull him out of the way.”

“…Thomas?” Matthew’s voice called out weakly. His dazed eyes somehow found his. “I…”

“We’ll have you free in no time at all, Lieutenant,” Thomas reassured him whilst bending his knees, keeping his back straight just as he’d been taught to by Mr Carson when picking up a heavy trunk. He ignored the fact that his left foot was dangerously close to the flames, that the heat was already bordering on unbearable, and instead found suitable handholds on the torn piece of metal, wide enough apart to give him the best possible chance. “Here goes...”

It was heavy but, just as before, the angle it had landed at was on his side.

Rather than lifting the whole thing he was just lifting up one end, the end that Matthew was pinned beneath. His aching shoulders were screaming at him within seconds, his fingers and forearms joining in moments later, and his trouser leg began to smoke rather worryingly.

“Nearly there,” Jenkins called out from where he was crouched with his arms looped under Matthew’s shoulders, his gaze fixed on the bottom of the piece of metal. “Little bit more…”

Sadly it was at that moment that the next shell struck the ship.

Thomas cried out first, losing his grip as the explosion rocked the entire ship. He fell into the flames, pushing himself out of them as quickly as possible and patting out the parts of his uniform which had caught fire. This, unfortunately, included the collars covering his hands.

Matthew cried out next as the piece of metal dropped down onto him once again.

Jenkins cried out, the last of the three was one of alarm rather than pain,

“Thomas!”

“I’m fine!” the steward in question responded, heart beating wildly as he returned to his previous position sans any protection for his hands. “Get ready to pull. We need to move.”

Taking hold of the metal he could feel his skin beginning to burn from the heat, blisters appearing as he pulled at the metal which by now was as hot as one of the irons he had wielded whilst in service. The flames from the wooden deck boards were growing, the tips of the deadly tendrils catching the backs of his vulnerable hands, more so on the left hand.

He ignored it all.

It wasn’t important.

What was important was getting Matthew to safety.

Letting out a shout of determination he pulled as hard as he could on the piece of metal…

“Pull!” he called out to Jenkins as soon as he’d gotten it high enough. “ _Pull_!”

He watched, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, as the legs he’d been standing over disappeared, pulled free of the wreckage from the other side, and as soon as he heard Jenkins call out that they were clear he pulled his hands off of the metal and let it drop back down, jumping back to avoid it landing on his feet. Stumbling around to the other side he cradled his hands into his stomach, suddenly very much aware of the pain as a good portion of his skin had become fused to the metal and had remained behind when he’d dropped it.

“Thomas…”

“Your hands,” Jenkins cry of alarm drowned out Matthew’s whimper. “ _Fuck_ …”

“Sick berth,” Thomas gasped, the pain receding at a somewhat alarming rate. In a matter of seconds it had faded almost entirely, the worst of the pain now coming from his shoulders. “We need to get him to the sick berth. Get the stretcher. _Jenkins_! Go and get the stretcher!”

“Thank you…” Matthew whimpered, reaching out to paw weakly at Thomas’ arm until the former footman shuffled closer on his knees whilst Jenkins hurried to bring the stretcher across to them. A sharp yelp escaped him when the young officer grabbed hold of his hand, squeezing it tightly. The pain was intense, so intense that his vision whited out briefly, but then the blissful and ever so slightly worrying numbness returned. “Thomas… _thank you…”_

Jenkins returned, laying the stretcher down beside Matthew.

They get him onto the canvas, Thomas gritting his teeth as the pain came and went in his hands, and all the while Matthew clutched at him, moving his hand to Thomas’ wrist. And, despite how awkward it made things he didn’t have the heart to force him to remove it.

If he needed to hold onto him after everything he’d been through so be it.

Meeting his fellow stewards eyes Thomas nodded, counting them into lifting the stretcher,

“Two, six; heave.”

There was nothing he could do to stop his vision from whiting out as the pain flared once more, his left hand spasming so badly that he almost lost hold of the stretcher. Jenkins shot him a look of concern, one which Thomas shrugged off, and they began to make their way back towards the sick berth. Because of the damage that the latest explosion had caused they couldn’t go around the side of the ship as they had been; instead they had to navigate their way through the passageways which were filled with sailors hurrying back and forth in as controlled a manner as they could whilst they completed their duties. Not a single man that they passed was panicking, however, each of them too well trained to falter like that.

“Thomas…” Mathew gasped fearfully as they accidently jostled him whilst turning a rather tight corner, rocking him from side to side on the stretcher. “Thomas, I can’t feel my legs…”

It felt as though the bottom had dropped out of Thomas’ stomach.

He’d been worried about what damage had been done to the wounded officers back given the way that he’d been pinned by what had once been his guns protective shield. Of course it would’ve been a miracle for him to have escaped unscathed but to have no feeling at all…

That wasn’t good.

“I’m…” he cleared his throat, if for no other reason than to give him time to cultivate a reassuring smile to go along with the lie. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Shock. You’ll be alright.”

It wasn’t nothing.

It couldn’t possibly be nothing.

The look that Jenkins shot back at him from his point at the front of the stretcher told him that the other man agreed with him. And yet neither of them said anything, they couldn’t.

Chaos reigned supreme in the sick berth but it was an organised chaos.

There were two men per bed, three in the upper bunks but there were ‘walking wounded’ cases who had been able to make their own way into the bunks, and more sat around the edges of the room leaning against the bulkheads. A queue of patients waiting to be seen by the surgeons began at the door, laid out on the floor, and unlike earlier all three surgeons were seeing to different men, one using the operating table whilst the others treated them as they found them, be it on a floor or a bed. Their fellow stewards were moving around the room, checking on the men, applying bandages, giving them water or simply holding their hand. And there was Keene, mopping up the endless amount of blood covering the floor.

Budge and Whiting had returned and were busy working alongside the others.

“They got the aft dressing station,” the teenager mumbled as they passed him. “Upwards of forty dead in the initial blast. Archie lost his hand. They said he’ll be alright but I don’t kno…”

“What have you got there?” Crabb called out from where he was bent over a man who was missing one eye, a deep gouge having replaced it. “Barrow? Does he need immediate care?”

“Some burns,” Thomas managed to get out as they lowered the stretcher down to the deck, offering Matthew as reassuring a smile as he could muster as they carefully lifted him off of the canvas and added him to the queue. “Nothing too major, I don’t think. Damaged spine.”

Crabb nodded, returning his attention to his current patient.

“Barrow, what happened to your hands?” Budge called out, gesturing that he was done with his patient, a middle-aged sailor with his arm nearly shredded to pieces. His question, filled with concern, prompted Thomas to look down at his hands for the first time since he’d hurt them. All it took was one glance and Thomas was gone, his eyes rolling back into his head as he crumpled first to his knees, then down onto his front with a thud. “ _Bloody hell_ , Barrow!”

Thomas came round to hands carefully rolling him onto his back, his owns hands being held away from his body so that they could be examined. They were horrifically blistered, his left hand was worse on the palm, his right hand more so on the back but both were ultimately burned all over. The blisters on his palms had burst sending rivulet of blood running down his forearms, disappearing underneath the cuffs of his uniform. It was enough to make him gag, his stomach churning, attempting to bring up what little he had eaten during the day.

“Right, Jenkins, take one of the other men and get back to work,” Budge ordered, clicking his fingers his a tray of surgical equipment until it was passed across to him. A whimper escaped Thomas as he began treating the wounds on his left hand, cutting away the dead flesh before cleaning what remained. “Barrow’s not in any condition to be going anywhere.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

His wounds were treated with a kind of precision that Thomas envied, each movement as precise as could be expected when the movement of ship was so sharp and unpredictable.

The dressing which were applied to his hands were different, given that each hand had been burned in a different place, but he still wound up looking as though he were wearing a pair of oversized mittens. His leg was checked over, the slight burns cleaned and then left alone.

“A bit of air won’t hurt those ones, not like your hands,” Budge explained as he and Whiting, his attendant, moved him across to sit with his back to the bulkhead with his hands pillowed on his thighs. The numbness had returned now that no one was touching them. “I’ll be ba–”

When they heard the explosion they feared, quite rightly, that their end had come.

But it wasn’t them.

“…where’s the _Invincible_ gone?”

Those that could hurried to look out of the open hatch or the portholes, trying to catch a glimpse of the battlecruiser. It was like the _Defence_ all over again but worse; the enormous ship had been rent in two leaving both the bow and stern bobbing like corks in the water.

Of the battleships compliment of 1,032 only six would be plucked from the water.

Thomas saw none of this.

He wished he could, the descriptions flying around the room so varied and embellished that he couldn’t be certain what was true and what wasn’t, but when he tried he was overcome with dizziness and was unable to raise himself more than a couple of inches from the deck.

No, he would have to stay where he’d been put for the time being.

 “If they can take out the _Invincible_ what hope do we have…”

Thomas sighed, tilting his head back to rest against the cold metal behind him.

What hope indeed?

They were going to need a miracle if they were going to make it out of this alive.

Unable to watch the battle going on as some of the wounded men continued to do, trying to figure out what was going on in the mixture of mist and smoke surrounding them, Thomas instead watched as Matthew was finally lifted up onto the operating table for Crabb to see to. They checked his spine, muttering worriedly amongst themselves, but focused more on the few burns he had received and the fact that he was coughing up blood. It turned out to be from his tongue which he had accidently taken a chunk out of with his teeth when he’d hit the deck rather than anything more serious such as a pierced lung. Once his injuries had been seen to, at least for the moment, the officer was carefully carried across the room and laid out on the floor beneath one of the sets of bunk beds, a blanket being spread over the floor first, but they purposely didn’t give him a pillow; they wanted him as flat as possible.

“…what are they doing?”

The startled question drew his attention away from Matthew and over to where one of the ships cooks was stood with his face all but pressed against the glass covering the porthole.

“Who is that? Can anyone make it out?”

“It’s a super-dreadnought…”

“What is? What’s going on?”

Thomas wasn’t alone in making his confusion known; almost every other patient that was unable to see for whatever reason shared his sentiment in one way or another, even those who were incapable of speaking for whatever reason, grunting out their own questions. A hush fell over the room as they waited for one of the sailors with a view to answer them.

“There’s a ship making her way between us and the German Fleet…”

“I can’t tell who she is…”

“I don’t care who she is so long as she keeps drawing their fire like that!”

The familiar whine of an incoming shell had them all tensing in anticipation of the hit…

Only it never came.

Or rather, it did; the heard the screams and the explosions to confirm it.

It was just that for the first time in what felt an eternity it wasn’t their ship that was hit.

It was…

“It’s _Warspite_!”

Thomas frowned.

That didn’t make any sense.

Why would the _Warspite_ , of all ships, intentionally put herself in harms way to save them?

She was part of the _Battlecruiser Fleet_ , the _5th Battle Squadron_ , and so had had nothing to do with _Warrior_ before now. There were no loyalties between the two crews, not unless the Captains knew each other. And no one in their right mind would have ordered them into danger like that just to save _Warrior_ , the oldest ship in the Fleet. It didn’t make any sense.

“She’s…is she _circling_ us?”

“I don’t understand…”

“Who cares what she’s doing so long as it stops the Germans from shelling us,” a gruff old stoker who’s left arm was splinted from shoulder to wrist announced from where he was stood leaning against the bulkhead, looking out of the porthole. “The lads downstairs need time to get our engines running, time when they’re not dealing with new fires and flooding.”

“I didn’t realise our engines weren’t working…”

“What, you thought we were sitting here for the sheer hell of it? Engineering took an almost direct hit, lots of bodies down there and a lot of damage,” the stoker responded, a haunted look appearing in his hardened gaze. He had a point. Even Thomas, a steward without any sort of tactical training, would have given the order to take them out of the danger zone by now so why hadn’t the Captain given the order to leave? A lack of engines would certainly explain it. “They were nearly there when I passed through on my way up here so we’ll see.”

A shell exploded in the water, the spray it caused bursting in through the open door.

“Ugh!” a sailor who had been watching what was going on cried out. “I’m soaked!”

“Keene!” Crabb barked sharply. “Get that deck mopped!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Seeing the puddle of water moving towards him Thomas pulled his feet towards his rear, bending his knees as much as he could so as to avoid getting his feet or injured leg wet.

Keene working almost frantically, wringing out the bloodstained mop with his hands after a couple of strokes across the floor to soak up the water, emptying the bucket over the side of the ship once it had filled up sufficiently, and within a couple of minutes the deck was left only slightly damp rather than flooded. Sweat poured down the teenagers face but he didn’t stop, moving on to cleaning up the latest pool of blood with his newly acquired efficiency.

“She’s coming around again.”

“What?”

“ _Warspite_. She’s coming around again.”

It was just then, with the other ship drawing the enemy’s fire once more, that they all felt _Warrior_ give a familiar and much more welcome lurch beneath them; they were moving.

“Well done, lads,” the stoker sighed, looking down at the deck as though he could see through it to the engine room many floors below. His sentiment was echoed by several other patients, one even patting the deck as though it were a dog. “Now to get us home.”

Thomas had a feeling that that would be easier said than done.

“Three cheers for _HMS Warspite_!” someone called out confidently. “Hip, hip!”

“Huzzah!”

“Hip, hip!”

“Huzzah!”

“Hip, hip!”

“Huzzah!”

Even Thomas had found himself joining in with the responses for the ship high had just saved all of their lives. They had no way of knowing, not until much later, that the move hadn’t been at all intentional on _Warspite’s_ part; their port-wing engine room had been damaged, causing their steering to jam as she attempted to avoid her sister-ships, _Valiant_ and _Malaya_. They had then decided to maintain course, effectively circling, rather than come to a complete halt and then reverse. Of course this decision made her a tempting target, her path easy to predict, and she was hit thirteen times whilst circling _Warrior_. In the time that it took her to correct the problem with her steering _Warrior_ had been able to see to her own engineering issues and begin to make her way home, limping away to the West.

 _Warspite_ herself would eventually be ordered home after her steering jammed again.

“Thomas?” Matthew’s weak voice drew his attention away from the group of sailors that he’d been watching clustered at the open hatchway and back across to the Officer who appeared to be trying to get up. Moving before he could think it through Thomas walked across on his knees, the dizziness too severe to get up properly, until he could press his bandaged hands down on Matthews chest. “What’s happened? I don’t…I can’t feel my…”

“You need to stay still, Mr Crawley,” Thomas murmured, sitting as best he could beside the bunk that Matthew had been placed underneath. “You’ve hurt your back, sir, remember?”

“…my back…” Matthew murmured thickly around his injured tongue. “...yes…Goode!”

“Whoa!” Thomas cried out, gritting his teeth against the pain flaring up from his hands as he was forced to apply a great deal of pressure to keep Matthew lying down. “Sir! Your back!”

“Goode! Where’s Goode?” Matthew gasped, slumping back on the ground, his wide eyes locking onto Thomas’. “He was right beside me when…when…where is he? He’s only a boy!”

A boy who, in all likelihood given the state of the guns, was most probably dead.

“I’ll find out what happened to him,” Thomas assured him, keeping up the pressure on his hands until Matthew had returned to his previous position. “You just…stay still, alright?”

Matthew nodded weakly, the fight seeming to drain out of him.

It took Thomas a couple of minutes to work up the energy to move again, shuffling over to Whiting who was going around the room with a canteen of black tea, serving some to each of the patients with a ladle rather than a mug. He looked concerned to see Thomas moving.

“Do you know if Goode has been brought in?”

“No, he hasn’t or at least I haven’t seen him. I’ll keep an eye out for him, though,” Whiting promised, putting the ladle back into the canteen and then placing that down on the deck. “Thomas, you really shouldn’t be moving around. You’re in shock, you know? I don’t think there’s any blood left in your cheeks. You’re pale as a ghost! Let’s get you sat back down.”

Thomas grunted in approval of this plan, his head swimming all of a sudden.

His place by the bulkhead had been given to another man in his absence and so, at Thomas’ suggestion, he was returned to Matthew’s side, leaning with his back against the bunk bed.

“He’s not here,” he informed the Officer. “But they’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“If he’s not here already then you know what that means, Barrow.”

He did.

It meant that he’d probably been killed outright in the blast which had wounded Matthew. 

“Sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault. Not anybody’s fault. Not really,” Matthew sighed, draping one of his arms over his eyes in order to hide the way they glistened. “It’s…it’s just this stupid, bloody war.”

“Try and get some rest, sir,” Thomas sighed, resting his hand on top of Matthew’s other hand, the one still resting at his side. “We’re on our way home now. The worst is over.”

Wasn’t it?

~ * ~

 **A/N** When I promised less of a wait for the next chapter I wasn’t expecting it to come quite so quickly but the battle wouldn’t leave me alone until I reached it conclusion. Cue some double checking into what happened next and here we go. Now I’m neither a historian, just an amateur enthusiast, or a doctor so please excuse any mistakes. Comments welcome. X

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
** **CHAPTER SIX**

**HMS Warrior  
31st May 1916**

“I swear this ship is cursed or something…”

“What do you mean?”

Thomas glanced over at where Keene was talking to the wounded sailor who had just come in to have his left hand bandaged, his injury painful but not crippling. He was an old sailor, grey sprinkled through his dark hair, and his skin was weather-beaten, tanned and wrinkled.

“Haven’t you noticed? We’re running in circles.”

“…I don’t understand…”

Keene was near breaking point.

His eyes were wide, haunted, his limbs obviously heavy and his voice slightly slurred.

He needed a break.

He needed sleep.

They all did.

“Rudders jammed. Full over. Nothing we can do about it; have the injury to prove it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re going to be stuck going round in circles until we sink instead of trying to get ourselves home,” someone else sneered at Keene, his harsh voice and unkind words proving to be the breaking point as the boy let out a sob, his eyes welling with tears. “Bloody hell…”

“Hey!” Thomas snapped. “Pipe down, would you? Keene, come over here.”

He patted the floor beside where he was sat, indicating for the boy to join him which he did, hurrying to tuck himself into Thomas’ side, his grisly cleaning duties temporarily abandoned.

“Don’t listen to them.”

“…are we really going to sink?”

Thomas sighed deeply,

“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Honestly Thomas was surprised that they hadn’t _already_ sunk after the number of times they’d been hit during the battle, a couple of them definitely striking below the waterline.

“What on Earth is _that_?”

“It’s a ship.”

“I can see it’s a ship but I’ve never seen a ship like _that_ before…”

“Yes, you have.”

“No, I think I’d remember.”

Almost everyone’s gaze had shifted to the pair arguing like an old married couple by the exterior hatch, their gazes fixed on something outside that Thomas couldn’t possibly see.

“Looks more like a blinking building than a ship…”

“It’s the _Engadine_!” a third sailor piped up beside the couple, his excitement clear to all. “You know, one of the air craft carriers? Look! She’s changed course to come over to us.”

 _HMS Engadine_ , formerly the cross-channel packet ship _SS Engadine_ , had been converted at the start of the war into a seaplane tender. This accounted for her unusual shape; they had literally put a building on her, calling it a hangar, and had filled it with three seaplanes to be used for aerial reconnaissance and bombing missions in the North Sea. She had no need of a flight deck, such as the kind that _HMS Campania_ had been fitted with, as her seaplanes were designed to take off from the water. This process, lowering the planes from the hangar into the water by crane, could take anything up to thirty minutes which wasn’t ideal. Despite what the other sailors had claimed it was possible that the first had never seen her before as she sailed with the _Battlecruiser Fleet. HMS Campania_ was the air craft carrier assigned to the _Grand Fleet_ but for due to a signalling error had failed to sail with the rest of the fleet.

“She’s signalling.”

“Semaphore?”

“Aye. She’s…she’s offering us assistance!”

An audible sigh spread throughout the sick berth.

“Now she’s acknowledging our reply…”

“What reply? What did we send?”

No one had seen, their own signalmen up by the bridge being just out of their line of sight, but a long moment later a bellowed order reached their ears through the open hatchway,

“Prepare to be taken in tow!” 

Sadly the manoeuvre wasn’t quite as simple as it should have been.

As well as the rudder having become jammed the boilers were now in accessible due to fire, flooding and a compensation of the two in some places and so before _Engadine_ could even think of trying approach them they had let _Warrior_ work off her current burst of steam, the ship turning in a series of tight circles until with a final splutter the engines fell silent at last.

Thomas listened as a motor-boat brought a light wire over to the ship from _Engadine_ which was attached to the heavier cable _Warrior_ had access to. There was a brief debate then about where the bollards the wire had been lashed to would hold amidst the amount of damage which had been done to her, most of the concern coming from the sailors aboard the motor-boat. Finally it was agreed that anything was worth a shot at this point and the lighter wire was pulled back to _Engadine_ , taking the loose end of the heavier wire with it.

“…what’s going on?” Matthew murmured, groggy from the morphia he’d been given. “Ba…”

“ _Engadine_ is going to take us in tow.”

Matthew frowned.

“…she’s too small,” he protested softly. “She’ll never…she’ll never manage to move us…”

He was right, to a degree.

 _Engadine_ was much too small, only 1,800 tons, and under normal circumstances wouldn’t have even attempted to tow a ship such a Warrior, 13,500 tons on a good day let alone with the amount of water they’d taken on. But these were anything but normal circumstances.

After they’d got the heavier line secured at the other end, _Engadine’s_ crew lashing it to every bollard and projection they could find, they made the first attempt to pull _Warrior_.

The line went taught, the sailors on deck urging it to work, but _Warrior_ didn’t move an inch.

 _Engadine_ , who had allowed some slack in the line to give them time to build up momentum, was brought to a shockingly abrupt halt, complete with a shower of sparks from a bollard as the wire pulled taut. A murmur of concern swept throughout the entire ship as they waited.

“…told you…” Matthew sighed. “We’re too…heavy…for her…”

Thomas hoped that that wasn’t the case.

That there was some other reason for the _Engadine_ to be having so much trouble.

A sharp cry came from just outside the open hatchway,

“It’s the bloomin’ rudder! Still jammed full over, ‘int it? _That’s_ what’s stoppin’ us!”

“He’s right,” a second voiced piped up. “They need to cut the cable. Cut the rudder cable!”

“What?”

The third voice came from amidships, thick with confusion.

“Cut the damned rudder cable so they’ll have a chance at moving the ship!”

The message must have finally reached the correct person because the next time that _HMS Engadine_ attempted to get her moving the _Warrior_ moved. Not a lot, of course, but enough to reassure them all that it would eventually be possible. Each further attempt saw _Warrior_ moving more and more until finally, as though the sea had finally decided to allow them to leave, they were under way. It was hard work for poor _Engadine_ , the two ships only moving at a speed of eight knots whilst her turbines made revolutions enough for nineteen knots.

It was only then, as the two crews breathed a deep sigh of relief, that they realised just how dark it had gotten. Night had well and truly fallen. A quick check of the time revealed that it was already 2130. _Engadine_ had first attempted to tow them at 1945, an hour after _Warrior_ had come across the seaplane carrier. Along with the darkness came an eerie silence, all sounds of battle fading behind them. In fact the final shots had been fired between the two fleets at 2032 although, sadly, this didn’t bring an end to the battle; more deaths were yet to come as the _German High Seas Fleet_ attempted to slip past the British, heading for home.

“Huh,” Matthew huffed, offering Thomas a drowsy smile. “I guess anything’s possible.”

“Indeed, sir,” Thomas murmured in response, offering a tired smile of his own in response. “Why don’t you get some sleep? You need to rest. There’s nothing more we can do now.”

Matthew hummed thoughtfully,

“A nap does sound rather…appealing…”

He was out cold in seconds, as though his body had been awaiting his minds permission, and joined the majority of the other patients who had been dropping off to sleep, some aided by the morphia they’d been given, most out of sheer exhaustion. Keene had given in to sleeps siren call a little while ago, curling up on his side his head pillowed heavily on Thomas’ thigh, and was now snoring softly. Crabb had come over shortly after the boys snores had begun, had taken one look at Keene’s peaceful expression and had assigned some else to clean up.

Thomas must have dosed a little bit, waking every now and then to the sounds that the rest of the crew were making as they attempted to keep _Warrior_ from taking on more water as they were literally dragged through the rolling waves of the North Sea. It was, sadly, a losing battle and by the time that the sun began to rise the list was painfully obvious. _Warrior_ was going down by her bows, port side, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.

“I think we should begin preparing the patients to abandon ship,” Wright advised as he came back from getting a moment of fresh air, his expression worried. Crabb, frowning, crossed to stand directly in front of him whilst Budge moved to hover at his side, a hand resting on Wrights arm. “She’s going down. It’s only a matter of time now; the waves are sweeping across the decks amidships, we’re so low in the water. We need to get the walking wounded ready to go and find stretchers and stretcher bearers for those who can’t walk.”

All three officers shared the same grave expression before Crabb finally nodded,

“Very well. Rouse the Stewards and begin making the necessary preparations.”

Thomas, with his injured hands and leg, could have been counted as a stretcher case but insisted that he could walk, not wanting to take up a valuable stretcher when it wasn’t necessary. So what if every step was painful, the burn on his leg throbbing in time with his heartbeat even as his hands remained numb most of the time? He could handle the pain.

They were just getting Matthew, awake but still mostly out of it thanks to a fresh dose of morphia, transferred onto a stretcher when the word reached them the order had been given; all hands were to fall in by divisions on the deck once _Engadine_ was alongside, ready to abandon ship. _Warrior_ , their trustworthy ship, was to be left to meet her watery grave.

“That’s the signal given,” someone near the hatch muttered, stopping to draw his friends arm over his shoulder to help him. “ _Come along side, am sinking._ Short, but to the point.”

“Semaphore has to be _short, and to the point,_ as you put it,” his mate chuckle through the bandages wrapped around his head, completely covering his face. “That’s how it works.”

Watching _Engadine_ attempt to come alongside _Warrior_ was a somewhat worrying affair.

By that point Thomas was down on the deck, his feet soaked by the water which appeared and disappeared with every movement of the ship, stood beside Matthew as the officer lay on his stretcher which had been propped up on top of the large box that the signal flags were kept in so as to keep him from getting soaked. Each of the other stretchers, eight in total, were similarly placed on any available surface in order to keep their occupants dry.

The other men labelled as “seriously wounded” but able to walk like Thomas stood nearby.

This positioning meant that he had a front row seat for everything that came to pass.

 _Engadine’s_ first attempt to come alongside resulted in a horrific sound, metal grating upon metal, as the seaplane carriers thinner plating was literally torn open when one of _Warriors_ guns punctured it below the waterline as the damaged ship rolled upon the moderate seas.

For a brief moment everyone feared that this accident had doomed them all.

Would _Engadine_ flounder alongside the ship she was trying to help?

But, no, her crew responded spectacularly and in no time at all the damage was patched, a cheer rising from both ships when the announcement was made that _Engadine_ was safe.

It was then time for a second attempt to come alongside to take place.

Thomas found himself holding his breath as he watched the smaller ship manoeuvring into place, this time being especially careful to avoid _Warriors_ remaining guns, and only refilled his lungs when the two ships had been successfully linked by a series of lines thrown across.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he muttered, turning to smile reassuringly down at Matthew who had also been watching the action taking place with a concerned expression. He was shivering under the thin blanket which had been tucked in around him, the early morning air cold to the point that Thomas was reminded of winter morning in the attics of Downton Abbey, ice on his window, his breath fogging in front of him as he washed and dressed. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll have you across in no time. And then it’ll be next stop, England, full speed ahead.”

For a few moments after the two ships were linked the sailors of _Warrior_ scurried around the ship, gathering supplies they would need and any souvenirs that they wanted to keep.

Thomas had only what he’d had on him when the battle had commenced.

It would be impossible for him to reach his things in time, even if the way was clear which he very much doubted, and any souvenirs he would’ve liked to have acquired were probably already in someone else’s possession. Plus his bandaged hands would have been a problem.

However, if he was honest, leaving with his life was souvenir enough at this point.

Within one deep breath and the next the crew began to form up into their divisions, Thomas being ordered to leave Matthew’s side for the first time since they’d come upon the officer pinned under the gun shield so as to join his own division, taking his place in the rear rank.

It was at this point, whilst they were waiting for the command to abandon ship to be given, that panic almost overcame the crew of the _Warrior_ , Thomas included when the sinking ship gave a violent shudder which told them all that her end was fast approaching. The panic was soon quelled, however, when the ships bugler, a young Marine called Hastings, sounded the “ _Still_!” and every single man, officer and seaman alike, sprang into the position of attention.

“Men, you have all done exceedingly well this day,” Captain Elliott announced clearly, his voice carrying over the noises being made by the ship dying beneath their feet. “You have done your duty, help your posts at all cost, and I am proud to call you my crew. The time has come for us to leave _Warrior_ to meet her end, a fitting burial for such a ship, sent down to _Davy Jones Locker_ like the warriors of old. But we shall not join her. Men, abandon ship.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Following his command the able-bodied, weary and battle grimed “ _Warriors_ ” leapt over the gap between the ships, some of the walking wounded requiring more than just a guiding hand, and were quickly distributed throughout _Engadine_ so as to keep her from capsizing.

Thomas was amongst them, glancing back over his shoulder as he was helped across.

Wounded as he was he wasn’t sent off to some distant part of the ship as most had been, instead he was simply taken one side and instructed to keep out of the way for the moment.

Then it was the turn of the stretcher cases.

Thomas could only watch, horrified, as tragedy struck.

As one of the stretchers was being passed across _Warrior_ gave another sudden lurch, the movement causing those handling the stretcher to lose their hold on it which sent its poor occupant down into the seething water below the two ships. Voices were raised, in horror and despair, Thomas’ amongst them as he prayed that it hadn’t been Matthew that had just fallen to his death. He couldn’t…he couldn’t return to the Abbey with such horrific news…

He just couldn’t…

Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to.

One of _Engadine’s_ crew, Flight Lieutenant Frederick Rutland, seized hold of a rope, tied a bowline around his body, and after ordering the men to hang on to the other end made his way forwards a little to the bows and swung himself over the bulwarks, quickly lowering himself down between the two ships in order to rescue the poor soul trapped between them. He was too late to save the sailors life, sadly, but was able to retrieve his limp body.

A feeling akin to being punched in the stomach had Thomas gasping for breath.

It wasn’t Matthew.

It was some other poor soul whose luck had run out that day.

For his actions Rutland would eventually be awarded the Albert Medal First Class.

As it stood then, however, he received many a commiserating pat on the back as he knelt over the body he had pulled up, stricken with grief at having been too late to save his life.

“Send over the next stretcher.”

It was this next stretcher that contain the Crawley’s heir.

Thomas watched, once again holding his breath, as the stretcher was passed from one ship to another without a single problem, Matthew’s hands emerging get from underneath the blanket in order to grip hold of the stretchers sides so firmly that his knuckles turned white.

All of the stretchers were being taken to the foredeck, Thomas had noticed, and so without being bidden to he made his way forward, following after the stretcher holding Matthew.

“Barrow,” the wounded officer called out as he caught sight of him, the two men carrying his stretcher frowning for a moment until Thomas stepped forward. “Did you see…I was…”

“We’re safe now, Mr Crawley,” Thomas sighed, sitting down on the deck beside the officer once his stretcher had been lowered ever so carefully. He barely held back a flinch of pain when Matthew reached out to clutch one of his heavily bandaged hands with both of his. “Look, the Captains making his way across. That’s everyone, everyone left alive, anyway.”

Captain Elliott had purposefully made sure that he was the last one to abandon his ship.

Once aboard the _Engadine_ he was met by her own Captain, a younger man who offered him polite condolences over the loss of his ship and enquired if he would like to say a prayer or something akin to one before they left the _Warrior_ and her dead to sink to her resting place.

“Yes, Captain Waverley, I would very much like to offer a prayer for the men of my ship who paid the ultimate price today,” Elliott responded. “So long as you don’t mind the delay…?”

“Not at all,” Waverley responded. “I’d like to give that patch job a once over before we go.”

The two Captains parted ways, Waverly heading below decks whilst Elliott gathered what remained of his crew who hadn’t been sent below decks to balance the ship out, Thomas amongst them. He found himself stood beside Greenaway, his young lover shivering from either the cold or the shock, and he placed a bandaged hand on his shoulder as a comfort.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Greenaway whispered. “I’m…I’m relieved to see you here.”

“You as well, Lieutenant.”

“Men, it is time for us to say goodbye to our comrades and our ship,” Captain Elliott called out, turning to face the battered ship that they were drifting away from now that the lines had been released. _Warrior_ was going to down fast now and it wouldn’t be long, Thomas realised, before she disappeared from sight for good. “We therefore commit the earthly remains of our brothers to the deep, looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.”

As one, Thomas included, the men added their voices to their Captains,

“Amen.”

It had been many years since he’d last attended a church service, given what the Church, be it Protestant or Catholic, said about people like him and it had been even longer since he’d last offered up a sincere prayer. And yet today his prayers, as numerous as they had been spontaneous, were as sincere as could be. He’d prayed for the safety his friends and the rest of the crew  as he’d traversed the ship carrying his stretcher, for Matthew to make it across safely and now he prayed for those that they’d lost to find the peace that they so deserved.

He only hoped that God would listen to someone like him.

And then, their prayer said and their crew safe, _HMS Engadine_ began to steam for home.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I honestly tried to get a chapter out of one of my other stories but this one wouldn’t leave me alone until I finished writing the Battle of Jutland scenes. As before I’ve done my best to be as historically accurate as possible but with a work of fiction a little bit of artistic licence is often required. A lot of this chapter was taken from accounts of men who were there, either aboard _Warrior_ or _Engadine_ , and the tragic incident with the man falling from the stretcher between the two ships really did happen. Comments/Suggestions welcome. X

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Rosyth  
2nd June 1916 **

With _Engadine_ as loaded down as she was it took them longer than it normally would have to reach the distinct landmark that was the _Forth Bridge_ , passing under it in relieved silence.

The bridge made for a truly impressive sight, linking the villages of _South Queensferry_ and _North Queensferry_ , that many a sailor used as a sign that they were nearly back in _Rosyth_.

It was one of the many “Victorian marvels” that the Earl of Grantham had been obsessed with, delighting in explaining everything about the bridge to his less than thrilled wife and daughters over the years. Thomas and his fellow servants had heard all about it too, given that they were always present and yet we’re all but invisible until the family required them.

Because of this Thomas knew that the bridge consisted of two main spans of 1,700 feet, two side spans of 680 feet, and fifteen approach spans of 168 feet meaning that the bridge itself was an impressive 8,094 feet long. Each main span consisted of two 680 feet cantilever arms supporting a central 350 feet span truss and the double track for the trains was elevated 150 feet above the water level at high tide. He even knew how much the bridge structure weighed, 50,513 long tons, and that the bridge had also used 640,000 cubic feet of granite.

One thing that he couldn’t remember off the top of his head was the height of the three four-tower cantilever structures which were responsible for keeping the bridge in place.

“…I’ve never seen anything like it…”

Both crews aboard _Engadine_ were newcomers to the area, the _Grand Fleet_ having been moored at _Scapa Flow_ before this, and as such most of them had never seen the bridge before. Not in person, at least; some of them, like Thomas, had seen it in the newspapers.

Of course, given that the pictures had been in black-and-White even Thomas was somewhat taken aback by the bridges vivid red colour, every inch having been painted that very colour.

“…no wonder my brothers use it as a landmark when they’re heading back into port…”

“Not long now, then,” Matthew murmured from where he was laid out on his stretcher on the foredeck. They’d moved the most serious casualties out there when they’d sighted land so that once they docked they could be taken ashore as quickly as possible. Thomas, as one of the “ _walking wounded_ ” cases had been informed that if he could find a space it was his for the duration of the voyage and so he had opted to stay beside Matthew. “That’s good.”

Around them _Engadine’s_ crew were a hive of activity as was to be expected with those not preparing their ship for the process of passing through the lock to the enclosed basin caring for the wounded, tending to their injuries or simply bringing them steaming hot cups of tea.

Thomas had never been to the Naval Base at _Rosyth_ before, simply because he’d only ever served on _Warrior_ as part of the _British Grand Fleet_ which was based out of _Scapa Flow_ , so was unsure what to expect. He soon realised, however, as they navigated through the lock dock that it was true what they said; once you’ve seen one Naval Base you’ve seen them all.

He did notice that several of the buildings appeared to be relatively new as they emerged from the lock into the enclosed basin where those ships that were in need of repairs had been ordered to dock, those that had escaped undamaged having dropped anchor in the open water of the _Firth of Forth_ , with a couple of them still surrounded by scaffolding. One of the Battlecruisers, he suspected it was _HMS Lion_ but it could have been one of the others that had also been hit such as _HMS Tiger_ , was in the process of entering the dry-dock on the land side of the basin and looked to be a sorry state even from the distance they were at.

“All hands, prepare to come alongside on the port side!”

A flurry of activity followed the command which had been broadcast through the ships simple tannoy system, men preparing the ropes and fenders which would be required.

It appeared that they were to come alongside one of the Battleships, _HMS Barham,_ which was already moored up alongside the single pier protruding into the basin. Signallers were busy on both ships, transmitting a flurry of orders, requests and responses as both crews prepared for the manoeuvre. Coming alongside another ship wasn’t all that complicated, at least not when the other ship is docked in a harbour, but the _Barham_ had obviously suffered a fair bit of damage during the battle which could potentially make things a bit challenging.

Not to mention the damage _Engadine_ had suffered whilst rescuing Thomas and his fellow shipmates or the temporary patches literally holding her hull together above the water line.

Thomas was certain that he wasn’t the only one holding his breath as the gap between the two ships grew smaller and smaller until, suddenly and with a distinct thud, they collided.

Or rather, the fenders both ships had lowered collided.

No metal made contact from either ship and in minutes the ropes had been flung back and forth and secured to the relevant bollards keeping the smaller ship alongside _HMS Barham_.

The next challenge came in the form of getting the wounded from _Engadine_ to _Barham_ and then from _Barham_ onto the pier which would then take them to the shore. After a rather extensive discussion between the two ships Captains it was decided to haul the stretchers up themselves rather than transferring the men on and off of one stretcher being lifted and lowered. This meant that a two lengths of rope were lowered from _HMS Barham_ using the shackles at the end of two of the ships wooden beams, a bowline-on-a-bite being fashioned at the end each rope so that the poles of the stretchers could be fed through them. Once that was done two shorter lengths of rope were used to put stopper knots on the ends of the poles to ensure that the bowlines couldn’t slip off as the patients was being lifted.

“I’m glad I’m not going first,” Matthew confessed as they watched the first of _Engadines_ patients, mercifully unconscious, being carefully lifted through the air. Once the stretcher was in line with _Barhams_ deck a pair of boat hooks were used to pull it towards the ship, the sailors manning the ropes working hard to give enough but not too much slack. A sigh of relief spread throughout the ship when the patient was safely on board the taller ship and the ropes, with the two smaller lengths of ropes tied simply through the bowlines, were lowered back down to collect the next stretcher. Now that they knew the method worked the transfer time grew shorter and short, both crews adjusting well to the task at hand, and in no time at all it was lieutenant Crawleys turn to be lifted. “I’ll see you ashore, Barrow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The next challenge to arise were Thomas and his fellow walking wounded.

It would be impossible for them to climb the rope ladder which had been lowered amidships as the able bodied survivors of _HMS Warrior_ had been instructed to. They, just like the more severe cases, would need to be lifted, and so the crew of the _Engadine_ set about fashioning a makeshift bosuns chair out of the lengths of rope, a plank of wood and several smaller pieces of rope. It didn’t look at all safe, more like something you’d see a child playing on, so it was with great reluctance that when he was called forwards as the first of the walking wounded to use it that Thomas took a seat on the plank of wood and allowed them to tie him in place. He couldn’t hold on properly thanks to the thick bandages covering his burned hands so instead he wrapped his arms around the two ropes connecting the bosuns chair to _HMS Barham_ until they were nestled into the crook of his elbows. That would have to do.

The bosuns chair gave an unpleasant lurch after the command had been given to begin lifting him up to the other ship, rising only a couple of feet before pausing as the sailors hauling on the ropes shifted their hands along. It then lurched once more, rising another couple of feet before once again coming to a stop. This unpleasantly jerky motion was repeated over and over again until Thomas had been lifted high enough for the two boat hooks to grab hold of him, by which point his stomach was churning unpleasantly. He’d never had a problem with heights before but being suspended on a plank high above the ship below him had been enough to trigger the unpleasant reaction, causing him to be eternally grateful to the men who quickly pulled the bosuns chair across and down onto a strategically placed wooden crate. Unwrapping his arms from the ropes he held them aloft as they released him from the chair, stumbling to his feet as soon as he was instructed to.

“There we go, nothing to it,” a handsome officer murmured, gesturing for a boy sailor to come forwards. “Saunders, help this man down onto the pier and then return for another.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A hand took hold of his elbow, steadying him until he’d got his legs under him properly once more, and Thomas allowed himself to be lead around to the gangplank connecting the ship to the pier below. Reassuring the young sailor that he could make the rest of his way on his own Thomas edged his way down the steep gangway, spotting the rows of stretchers at the secured end of the pier and made his way towards them, searching out for Matthews face.

“Are you the first of _Warriors_ waking wounded?”

Turning to face the source of the unfamiliar voice Thomas found himself before a doctor holding a clipboard and pencil, his expression serious as he looked Thomas up and down.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” the doctor hummed before ordering, “Name, Rank and Injury, please.”

“Barrow, Thomas,” Thomas answered automatically. “Officer Steward. Burns.”

“Burns, you say?”

Nodding Thomas extended his hands for the officer to see.

“My hands are…quite bad. Blistered,” he explained. “And there’s a slight burn on my leg.”

“I see,” the doctor hummed once more, making a series of notations on his clipboard. “Burns are tricky things. I think I’ll send you to the _‘Edinburgh Royal Infirmary_ ’ with the stretcher cases. Don’t wander off; there’ll be transport arriving shortly for all of you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Dismissed with a simple nod, the officer turning his attention to the next walking wounded patient who was being assisted down the gangway due to the fact that his injuries were to his face so the bandages had ended up covering his eyes, Thomas returned to searching for Lieutenant Crawley amongst the stretcher cases. There were fourteen in total, he counted, and at last he was able to identify Matthew as the occupant of stretcher number thirteen.

“Well,” Thomas exhaled loudly as he knelt down beside Matthew. “That was interesting.”

Matthew chuckled,

“Indeed.”

A steady stream of walking wounded patients began to make their way off of the ship, most being sent on with the uninjured as they were only minor cases and would be being sent to a different hospital, and then a stream of unfamiliar faces appeared as the _Engadine_ crew began to come ashore leaving behind only a skeleton crew to look after the maintenance.

The transport that had been promised arrived in due course, a converted bus which could take only six stretchers at a time along with a couple of the walking patients so they were split into three groups. As luck would have it Thomas and Matthew were put into the same group, it was just somewhat unfortunate that they were in the last group so they had to wait on the pier for a further hour after the first patients had been whisked away. In the end, however, they ended up the lucky ones as once they reached the train station they only had a five minute wait on the unpleasantly draughty platform before being carefully loaded into the converted goods van of an ordinary passenger train bound for _Edinburgh_.

The journey itself didn’t take much more than an hour, travelling across the same _Forth Bridge_ that they had passed under only a few hours earlier, which was lucky as the chair that Thomas had been given was quite possibly the most uncomfortable he’d ever sat on.

More importantly no patients required anything more than a dressing change.

“There will be ambulances waiting at the station,” the officer with the clipboard who had accompanied them on the train announced as they slowed upon approaching the station. “They will transport us to the hospital whereupon I will hand you over to the doctors there.”

There were, indeed, ambulances waiting for them.

There was also, Thomas was surprised to note, a large crowd of people.

And they weren’t happy to see them.

“What the…?”

He was shocked when, just as the uniformed orderlies from the ambulance were unloading Matthew’s stretcher from the train, an overweight man with a red face let out an angry cry,

“Cowards!”

It was so unexpected that it took them all by surprise.

They…

_“Cowards!”_

Anger rose within Thomas, like a tidal wave, and before he could stop himself he was across the platform and standing in front of the man, his handsome face twisted into an ugly glare.

“How _dare_ you…?!”

A finger was suddenly in his face, the digit full of accusation and anger.

“You let the Germans walk all over you!”

“We…we didn’t _let_ them do anything!” Thomas sputtered, filled with righteous anger as he confronted him. “We went through _hell_ on earth for _you_ , for _all_ of you and this is how you repay us?! Do you know how many of us _died_ for _you_?! And you dare to call us cowards?”

“We wouldn’t have to if you’d done your jobs!”

Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“…done our jobs?” Thomas repeated, his voice rising to an even higher pitch as he felt incredulousness taking over. “… _done our jobs?!?_ We _did_ our jobs! We…we did _more_?”

“More, you say?” a woman scoffed. “ _More_?! Then _why_ did the Germans _win_?!?”

“… _what_?” Thomas all but screamed. “They _didn’t_ win!”

Was that…was that really what the people of Great Britain thought?

That the Germans had won?

“We sent them scuttling back to their home ports without a chance of breaking free of our blockades!” he shouted over the noise of the crowd, gesturing with his bandaged hands. A couple of voices fell silence, stunned by his words. “If the Germans had won they’d have gained access to the sea! They’d have gotten access to America and their resources. But they didn’t. And they haven’t. And they won’t. So don’t you dare call those men _cowards!”_

With that final word, all but spat in the man’s stunned face, Thomas turned and stormed towards the ambulance. A couple of people who were still angry with them tried to get in his way but his glare, intense as it was, was enough to send them scuttling out of his way.

“What ship were you on?”

This voice was much younger, calling out to him just as he was about to climb aboard the last ambulance, and unlike the other it’s wasn’t filled with hate. It was filled with respect.

“ _Warrior_ ,” he answered, looking back over his shoulder. “We were aboard _HMS Warrior_.”

As the last patient to board the ambulance Thomas was left sitting on the very edge of one of the small seats at the end of the metal structures holding the stretchers, his legs hanging out of the back of the ambulance. It was precarious, to say the least, and he was grateful when the man taking up the rest of the seat he was perched upon took hold of his jacket.

“Thanks,” he muttered, instantly feeling more stable as they bounced over the cobbles, shooting the other man a grateful smile. “I can’t really hold onto anything with these.”

He held up his bandaged hands to demonstrate precisely what he was referring to.

“Had a feeling you might need a hand, pardon the pun,” the sailor helping him out snorted. Opposite them the occupants of the seat had gone down a much simpler route; the ships boy with his lower left arm missing, a dressing and tourniquet applied to his upper arm, was sat upon the lap of the fatherly stoker who had suffered burns to his faces, neck and hands. “I heard what you said, back on the platform. Wish I’d had the guts confront them like that.”

“Wasn’t so much guts as a short fuse,” Thomas confessed. “Is Lieutenant Crawley with us?”

“I don’t think so,” the other man answered. “They put the officers all in one ambulance.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Thomas sighed, frustrated that he’d allowed himself to be separated from the other man although it was pretty much inevitable that they would have ended up separated at one point or another; there was no way that an officer with a back injury would be treated in the same ward as a steward with burns. He just hadn’t meant for it to happen so soon. “I don’t know about you but I could do with a cup of tea after all that.”

“I’d prefer a tot of rum,” the other sailor responded dryly. “But to each their own.”

A chuckle spread throughout the ambulance in response to his cheerful statement.

Even Thomas, who was being mocked playfully, couldn’t help but laugh.

Yeah, if given the choice between tea and rum he’d probably choose the latter as well.

When Thomas had first joined the Navy the daily rum ration, or “tot” as it was known, had taken him by surprise. He’d honestly thought that such a practice was something that had only existed in the world of fiction in this day and age but, no, each and every sailor was entitled to a tot of rum, measuring one-eighth of an imperial pint, at midday when possible.

Officers, much to Thomas’ surprise, were the only sailors aboard ship not entitled to a “tot.”

The Senior Rates, from the lowest Petty Officer to the most senior Chief, received their rum neat whilst the rest of the ship received theirs diluted with two parts water to make three-eighths of an imperial pint. Even then it was some of the strongest alcohol he’d ever had.

Getting used to drinking a “tot” a day had been an interesting struggle.

There were some sailors who didn’t partake in the tradition, of course, those who followed the _Temperance Movement_ for example although there had only been two of them aboard Warrior. They received three pence a day instead of the rum. Others chose not to have their rum ration because they needed the money, usually to send home. By the time Thomas had found out that he could opt out if he wanted to he’d already grown too used to the practice.

Out of curiosity he’d spoken to members of _Warriors_ crew over the years, hoping to learn as much as he could about the unusual tradition, and through this research he knew that the original ration had been one hallow, as in eight pints, of beer. _Eight pints_ of beer _per day._

He could only ever manage three before the world began to spin unpleasantly.

How had those sailors managed to perform their duties in such a state?

He honestly had no idea.

Beer had been the daily allowance until after the Napoleonic Wars although due to the fact that it spoiled easily there had been alternative substitutes available; a pint of wine or half a pint of spirits, depending on what was available locally. It had, in fact, been politics that had resulted in rum replacing all of the other options, influence from the West Indian planters.

Over the years the ration was diluted, taken at two different times a day and cut in half then half again by the Victorians, eventually bringing them to the practice that they now enjoyed.

There were some odd traditions regarding the rum ration as well, he had learned during the last couple of years; “tot” glasses were kept separate from any other glasses and were only ever to be washed on the outside. The belief was that by not washing the inside of the glass the residue of past “tots” would stick to the glass and make the fresh “tot” even stronger. And the only way to “prove” that the rum was of proper strength was to douse some gunpowder in it and set it alight. If the rum still burned that meant that it was at least 57% ABV ( _alcohol by volume_ ) and therefore suitable for their consumption. Thankfully Thomas had never seen this done, gunpowder and flames being somewhat dangerous aboard ship.

This was definitely a tradition left in the past.

“I’ve never tried rum,” the ships boy murmured drowsily from where he was curled up on the stokers lap, looking even younger than his tender years. “They said I wasn’t old enough.”

“Quite right, too,” the Stoker murmured in a fatherly manner, rubbing his back. “You’ve got plenty of time to try it once you’ve finished growing, young man. There’s no need to rush.”

A chorus of agreement came from the occupants of the stretchers.

They were met at the hospital by a somewhat harried looking doctor who was definitely past the age of retirement, no doubt brought back to the hospital after they’d lost most if not all of their doctors of enlistment age, trained physicians and surgeons being very much needed at the front. He was accompanied by a nursing Sister who held the clipboard that the officer had handed over to the senior ambulance orderly after officially signing over his charges to their care and a gaggle of pretty young VAD ( _Voluntary Aid Detachment_ ) nurses.

“Barrow, Thomas?”

Looking up as the Sister read his name from the clipboard it took him a moment to respond,

“That’s me.”

“And Noakes, John?”

It was the burned stoker who responded this time,

“I go by Jack but, yeah, that’s me.”

“Jones, Patrick?”

A stretcher case this time, a single hand being raised weakly in response.

“And finally Atkinson, Kenneth?”

“That’s me,” the stretcher case underneath the first responded. “And I prefer Ken.”

“Burns ward please, nurses,” the Sister announced, addressing the gaggle of VAD’s who stepped forwards to assist the ambulance men in helping those whose names had been called to descend from the back of the ambulance. “Get them ready for doctors inspection.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Thomas found himself being helped to his feet by the smallest of the nurses, the top of her head not even reaching his shoulder, and was surprised by her strength as she wrapped one arm around his waist to keep him steady. Looking back over his shoulder he nodded a quick thank you and farewell to the sailor who had been helping him, catching sight of the other man taking the boy sailor from the stoker so that the other man could exit the ambulance.

“Come on then. Mr Barrow,” the VAD smiled up at him as she began leading him inside the surprising building, surprising in that it didn’t look anything like what Thomas had expected. The hospital was quite possibly one of the grandest building Thomas had seen outside of London, Downton Abbey included. It was a pinnacle of what he’d call delicate architecture and if someone had told him that a member of the Aristocracy lived inside he wouldn’t have been surprised. The fact that it was a hospital actually seemed wrong. “Let’s get you inside.”

Thomas was the first of the burns patients to make it inside, the stretchers being carried in behind him. The stoker, blinded by his dressings, brought up the rear at a bit of a distance.

It took them fifteen minutes to make it to the ward that was to become their home for the foreseeable future, traversing a couple of flights of stairs and a veritable maze of identical corridors. The ward itself was a long rectangular room and contained two rows of hospital beds, each one placed underneath a window and posing its own chair for visitors and a tall cabinet for the patients things to be kept in. In terms of patients only half of the beds were currently occupied, all of them along the same wall, and so Thomas and his fellow _Warriors_ were given the first four beds on the left side of the room, Thomas furthest from the door.

“Right,” the nurse who Thomas was beginning to think of as _his_ VAD announced brightly as she hurried to erect the screens around his bed. “Let’s get you out of that dirty uniform.”

A flush appeared on her cheeks even before she’d finished speaking.

Stripping him of his uniform was easier said than done, however, due to her unfamiliarity with how it worked and his bandaged and therefore useless hands. In the end he had to give her very precise instructions regarding the best way to remove his collar, jacket and white front. Normally he’d have insisted that she fold his trousers properly but they were pretty much ruined, particularly the leg which had been burned as there was a hole in the fabric.

Eventually, after a fight with the laces of his boots which they’d both forgotten about until shed attempted to remove his trousers, he stood before her in nothing but his underwear.

The flush on her cheeks spread rapidly down the sides of her neck as she folded his uniform into manageable bundles, placing them all in a paper bag before turning to him and nodding to his underwear, biting her lip before finally reaching forwards to pull them down his legs.

These were then added to the paper bag which was placed at the foot of the bed.

“We’ll have those cleaned for you, should they prove salvageable,” she explained, looking at the wall behind his shoulder. Thomas found it rather adorable that she, a nurse, was so very embarrassed by his naked body. Especially as he was one of the least likely patients she would ever have to care for in such an intimate way that would _react_ in any way to her attentions. Now, were she one of the handsome orderlies it would be a different matter entirely… “For now though lets get you scrubbed clean and into a set of hospital pyjamas.”

 _Getting scrubbed clean_ was an interesting experience, Thomas chuckled silently to himself, the young VAD fetching a bowl of warm, soapy water and a sponge which she used to wipe the sweat, dried sea salt, muck, soot and blood off of Thomas’ skin. He was more filthy than he’d realised, the water having to be changed twice, and could do nothing to help but stand perfectly still and completely silent, lest the blood vessels burst in her cheeks from blushing.

Getting him dressed in the unpleasantly starched hospital pyjamas took significantly less time than stripping him had, her hands much more familiar with these items of clothing.

Then he was helped into bed, tucked in and the screens were removed.

“Doctor will be here to have a look at your injuries shortly,” his VAD announced as she bent to pick up the bag containing his uniform. “Can I get you anything in the meantime? Tea?”

Thomas nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

He’d just finished his tea by the time the Doctor arrived, starting his assessments with the patient nearest the door. Thomas hadn’t had any trouble holding the cup and saucer despite his bandaged hands, resting both in his lap when not physically taking a sip. The problems occurred, however, when he attempted to place them on his bedside cabinet. Even empty of liquid they were too heavy for his injured hands, the burns throbbing more and more as he struggled to reach the cabinet that was _just_ out of his reach and then, suddenly, he lost control of his fingers, the digits spasmed wildly due to the pain, and both the cup and its saucer plummeted to the ground, shattering into pieces upon impact with a loud smash.

“Oh, Mr Barrow!” his VAD exclaimed with dismay as she rushed over to him from where she’d been gathered with her fellow nurses. “I’m so sorry! You should’ve asked for help.”

“I thought I could reach,” Thomas explained as she first got him settled back against his pillows and then began cleaning up the mess, picking out the bigger pieces. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you worry,” she reassured him. “I’ll be back with a dustpan and brush.”

In the end she’d only just finished clearing away the last of the mess, the small amount of liquid which needed to be mopped up with a cloth, by the time the Doctor reached Thomas.

“Sorry to make you wait so long, Mr Barrow,” the man whose grey hair was speckled with patches of pure white murmured upon arriving beside his bed. “Let’s start with your leg.”

Working together two of the VADs had his bed sheets and pyjama bottoms off in now time, revealing the open wound to his leg. It was poked, prodded, and pulled about unpleasantly, the doctor humming thoughtfully all the while, before he finally announced that the burn would heal well enough with only a simple course of treatment; keeping it clean and dry.

“Now; I’d like to see your right hand first, if I may.”

This wound, when it was carefully revealed, was given a much more delicate treatment.

“That’s a nasty burn, Mr Barrow. I’m afraid there’ll be quite a bit of scarring,” the doctor apologised as he pressed gently at the burns edges, his actions sending shards of pain lancing up Thomas’ arm. He hissed loudly, trying to pull his hand away, as the doctor continued to probe around the edge of the largest blister. “Let’s this blister drained first, then I want the wound to be cleaned and dressed. We’ll need to monitor for infection.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Now, let’s get a look at your other hand.”

None of the medical staff could conceal their surprise once the dressing had been removed, revealing the fact that whilst his right hand was burned on the back of his hand the left hand had been burned on the palm. The wound itself looked different, too, given that it was from touching the heated metal rather than the flames themselves. There was only one blister on his right hand, the rest of the burn seeming to have eaten away at his skin, whilst the burn covering his left palm was made up almost entirely of blisters in various shapes and sizes.

Thomas didn’t know which was worse.

“…were you in two fires, Mr Barrow?”

“No,” Thomas countered the genuine inquiry from the doctor as the elderly man began an even gentler examination than before, barely touching his skin at all. It still hurt. “I burned my left hand lifting a piece of hot metal whilst my other hand was touched by the flames.”

“I see,” the grey haired man hummed thoughtfully before leaning back. “Well, these blisters will need draining and cleaning too, I’m afraid. Sister, I advise a regimen of morphine for the time being. I’ll be back to check on all the new patients this afternoon but for now carry on.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The morphine wasn’t enough to stop Thomas from passing out into blissful nothingness as his hands were treated, the blisters being carefully popped and then drained of the fluid they contained. He was unconscious before they even began to clean the three burn sites.

~ * ~

_“On the afternoon of Wednesday, 31 May, a naval engagement took place off the coast of Jutland._

_The British ships on which the brunt of the fighting fell were the Battlecruiser Fleet and some cruisers and light cruisers, supported by four fast battleships._

_Among these the losses are heavy…_

_The battle cruisers Queen Mary, Indefatigable, Invincible, and the cruisers Defence and Black Prince were sunk._

_The Warrior was disabled, and after being towed for some time had to be abandoned by her crew._

_It is also known that the destroyers Tipperary, Turbulent, Fortune, Sparrowhawk and Ardent were lost and six others are not yet accounted for…_

_The enemy’s losses were serious…”_

_– official statement published by the Admiralty on 3rd June 1916_

~ * ~

Thomas couldn’t believe what he was reading.

Why…

Why would the Admiralty publish such a statement in response to the Germans declarations of victory? It made them sound…well…it made them sound as though they’d lost after all…

Which they hadn’t, not by his reckoning.

The Germans had wanted to break free of the blockade.

Instead, they’d been sent scurrying home.

How was that a victory?

“So much for the Navy…” one of the civilian patients on the other side of the ward muttered loudly, obviously reading the same thing as he was. “There goes our naval supremacy, lads.”

And, having read the same publication as him, Thomas couldn’t blame him.

Who thought it was a good idea to publish a list of British losses in all its horrifying detail whilst at the same time only referring to the fact that the Germans had also _suffered losses_ , effectively making it appear that this might not be the case when the lists finally arrived.

And to not explain how the battle played out, only giving the location and date?

Well, that was just…

“What a piece of utter shit,” one of the other sailors cursed loudly. “Damned Admiralty…”

“…what ship were you lot on?”

It was a different civilian patient that softly enquired this of the four sailors.

“ _Warrior_ ,” Thomas answered. “We’re from _HMS Warrior_.”

“Oh.”

Silence fell upon the ward.

The losses at Jutland, Thomas would later find out through a series of much more detailed publications, were horrific to say the least with a total of 6,094 men killed, 674 injured and 177 taken prisoner over the course of the battle which had lasted a mere thirty-six hours.

First to be lost was _HMS Indefatigable_ , part of the _2 nd Battle Cruiser Squadron_ of the _Battle Cruiser Fleet,_ within the first ten minutes of the battle. She was hit was hit around the rear turret by two or three shells from _SMS Von der Tann_ and had fallen out of formation, sinking towards the stern and listing to port. It took only a couple more hits from _Von der Tann_ , one towards the forecastle and another one to the forward turret, for her magazines to explode.

Of her crew of 1,019, only three survived.

 _HMS Queen Mary_ was the next Royal Navy ship to be sunk at the Battle of Jutland. She was part of the _1 st Battle Cruiser Squadron _of the _Battle Cruiser_ and was in something that could be called a duel, of sorts, with the _SMS Seydlitz_ , the two ships exchanging fire and causing each other damage when the _Queen Mary_ had strayed into the sights of _SMS Derfflinger._

She was struck twice before 1630, one of the shells hitting forward and detonating one or both of the forward magazines which broke the ship in two near the foremast. It was still unsure where the second shell hit the _Queen Mary_ although damage to the ‘Q’ turret, reported by a survivor, suggested that it had struck the ship there. A further explosion, possibly from shells breaking loose, shook the aft end of the ship as it began to roll and sink.

1,266 crewmen were lost.

Only twenty survived, two ending up as prisoners of war.

 _HMS Nomad_ was part of the _13th Destroyer Flotilla_ of the _Battle Cruiser Fleet_ , tasked with launching a torpedo attack against the German battlecruisers who were in turn launching their own torpedo attack on the British battlecruisers. The two destroyer forces became involved in an intense engagement, during which _Nomad_ was disabled by a shell hit in her engine room. She wasn’t sunk until later, though, when she and her sister ship, _HMS Nestor_ , who had also been immobilised during the battle were engaged by enemy battleships. She went down fighting, launching all of her torpedoes before being so badly damaged by the combined fire from the German battleships _SMS Friedrich der Grosse, SMS Prinzregent Luitpold, SMS Kaiser_ and _SMS Kaiserin_ that her crew had been forced to abandon ship.

A final hit had eventually caused her forward magazine to explode at around 1730.

Of her crew only eight were killed, the remaining seventy-two ending up prisoners of war.

Thomas hadn’t realised any of this had been going on, so focused on his duties aboard _HMS Warrior,_ and would end up being both fascinated and horrified by what had been going on.

 _HMS Nestor,_ also of the _13th Destroyer Flotilla_ , engaged in the same torpedo attack as her sister ship, _HMS Nomad_ , and was hit by enemy fire, disabling her. This forced _HMS Nicator,_ one of the other two ships in their squadron, to veer off course at the last minute so as to avoid a collision. Just like her sister ship _Nestor_ went down fighting, firing her remaining torpedoes at the rapidly approaching enemy. _Nomad_ was sunk first having been closer to the German Fleet which left _Nestor_ alone in the face of the entire German Fleet. The crew were ordered to destroy all charts and confidential books before launching the ships boats, loaded with water and biscuits ready for the crew to use. It was reported that Commander Bingham then ordered the crew to lay out cables as though they were anticipating a tow as an exercise so as to keep them occupied. Inevitably the Germans opened fire, _Nestor_ fired her last torpedo and then, with the ship sinking underneath them, they abandoned ship.

Six of her crew were killed, the remaining eighty-eight joining their colleagues as prisoners.

Thomas learned of the fate of the _HMS Shark_ through the London Gazette who, on the 6th March 1917, published the citation for Commander Jones’ posthumous Victoria Cross;

_“On the afternoon of the 31st May, 1916, during the action, Commander Jones in H.M.S. "Shark", Torpedo Boat Destroyer, led a division of Destroyers to attack the enemy Battle Cruiser Squadron._

_In the course of this attack a shell hit the "Shark's" bridge, putting the steering gear out of order, and very shortly afterwards another shell disabled the main engines, leaving the vessel helpless._

_The Commanding Officer of another Destroyer, seeing the "Shark's" plight, came between her and the enemy and offered assistance, but was warned by Commander Jones not to run the risk of being almost certainly sunk in trying to help him._

_Commander Jones, though wounded in the leg, went aft to help connect and man the after wheel._

_Meanwhile the forecastle gun with its crew had been blown away, and the same fate soon afterwards befell the after gun and crew._

_Commander Jones then went to the midship and the only remaining gun, and personally assisted in keeping it in action._

_All this time the "Shark" was subjected to very heavy fire from enemy light cruisers and destroyers at short range._

_The gun's crew of the midship gun was reduced to three, of whom an Able Seaman was soon badly wounded in the leg._

_A few minutes later Commander Jones was hit by a shell, which took off his leg above the knee, but he continued to give orders to his gun's crew, while a Chief Stoker improvised a tourniquet round his thigh._

_Noticing that the Ensign was not properly hoisted, he gave orders for another to be hoisted._

_Soon afterwards, seeing that the ship could not survive much longer, and as a German Destroyer was closing, he gave orders for the surviving members of the crew to put on lifebelts._

_Almost immediately after this order had been given, the "Shark" was struck by a torpedo and sank._

_Commander Jones was unfortunately not amongst the few survivors from the "Shark" who were picked up by a neutral vessel in the night.”_

Thomas had, sadly, witnessed the fate of _HMS Defence_ and not one single report about the loss of the ship contained a piece of information that he didn’t already know or suspect.

He had also witness, in a roundabout way, the loss of _HMS Invincible._

She had been lost at 1830, less than three hours since the first shell of the battle had been fired, after accidently becoming a clear target for _SMS Lützow_ and _SMS Derfflinger_. They fired three salvoes each at the _Invincible_ and sank her in just ninety seconds. At least one shell penetrated the front of ‘Q’ turret, blowing off the roof and detonating the midships magazines which blew the ship in half. It was possible that the initial explosion ignited ‘A’ and ‘X’ magazines, adding to the chaotic, destructive power which had torn the ship apart.

Of her complement, 1,026 officers and men were killed, including Rear-Admiral Hood.

There were only six survivors who were picked up by _HMS Badger,_ one of ten ships in the _First Destroyer Flotilla_ of the _Battle Cruiser_ Fleet, and of these survivors all except one of them were stationed in the fire control top located at the top of the tripod foremast. The last survivor was stationed in 'Q' turret itself and had, by some miracle, been thrown clear.

Focused as they were on trying keep their own ship afloat whilst under tow Thomas and his fellow _Warriors_ hadn’t even been aware of the night action that had taken place once the sun had set, plunging the tumultuous sea into darkness. _HMS Tipperary_ was probably the first ship to be lost that night after flashing the recognition signal to what she had thought to be her allies but had in fact been her enemy. In response to her signal she was lit up by the searchlights of three battleships and three light cruisers, including _SMS Westfalen_ and _SMS Nassau_ who proceeded to fire 150 rounds of 5.9in shells at her in just five minutes.

 _Tipperary_ was badly hit and most of her crew were killed or wounded, including her Captain.

The remaining crew clung on as long as they could before eventually abandoning ship at about 0200 the following morning, the burning ship finally sinking beneath the waves.

150 officers and sailors were lost, either during the battle of from their wounds.

Only forty-seven men survived the night.

No one knew precisely what had happened to _HMS Black Prince_ , the fourth ship in _Warriors_ own squadron _._ She had lost contact with the rest of the _1 st Cruiser Squadron _when they had made their ill-fated attempt to defeat their enemy, the action which had resulted in the loss of both the _Defence_ and _Warrior_. That was the last time that anyone saw the _Black Prince._

One theory eventually emerged regarding the disappearance of the ship.

It supposed that the possible sighting of a German battlecruiser by _HMS Spitfire,_ herself badly damaged after colliding with _SMS Nassau_ , with two widely spaced funnels which was described as being “ _...a mass of fire from foremast to mainmast, on deck and between decks. Flames were issuing out of her from every corner…_ ” could, in fact, have been the _Black Prince_ , with her two midships funnels having collapsed or been entirely shot away.

This mysterious ship had exploded sometime close to midnight.

The loss of the _Black Prince_ meant that the _1 st Cruiser Squadron _could boast the unfortunate title of being the most decimated individual squadron to fight at the Battle of Jutland, losing three out of its four ships. Only _HMS Duke of Edinburgh_ survived, miraculously undamaged.

Thomas did, in fact, end up using this particularly morbid boast on a couple of occasions.

Mostly when he a little bit drunk and wanted to remind people that the officers and men of the Royal Navy had fought and died for their country just the same as those in France had.

Both _HMS Fortune_ and _HMS Ardent_ were lost in the night action.

They had escaped the attack which had resulted in the loss of the _Tipperary_ , becoming separated from the rest of the 4th Destroyer flotilla, and had begun to look for any German ships which had disengaged after sinking the leader of their flotilla. At about 2330 they had eventually found their quarry, four large ships by all accounts, and had engaged all of them.

Both _Ardent_ and _Fortune_ were sunk in the ensuing firefight.

Of their two crews 145 men lost their lives whilst three survived, two from _Ardent_ and only a single man from _Fortune_. According to the newspaper reports, which included statements from men who were there, the last anyone saw of _HMS Fortune_ the ship was on fire but still firing shells at the enemy even as she began to sink into the dark waters of the _North Sea._

The loss of _HMS Sparrowhawk_ was particularly distressing, not because of the loss of life but because of the circumstances behind her demise. At around 2340 some of the ships of the _4th Destroyer Flotilla_ formed up under Commander Walter Allen of _HMS Broke_ , who was the half-flotilla leader, with the aim of continuing the attack against the nearby German ships.

 _HMS Broke_ was caught in the searchlights coming from _SMS Westfalen._ She attempted to fire her torpedoes but the range was much too short and the German ship opened fire first.

Within a couple of minutes _HMS Broke_ had lost eighty of her crew, fifty being killed outright while a further thirty were injured. Her guns had been disabled, the decks so badly damaged that they were unsurpassable and the helmsman had been killed at the wheel. It was this last fact, of all things, that had done for _HMS Sparrowhawk_ for as he had died his body had turned the wheel, turning the ship to port which caused her to ram into poor _Sparrowhawk._

Thankfully Sub-Lieutenant Percy Wood saw _HMS Broke_ coming towards them at 28 knots, almost top speed, and realised that she was heading directly for _Sparrowhawk's_ bridge. He shouted for the crew on the fo'c'sle to get clear, and then was knocked over by the impact.

He awoke to find himself lying on the deck of _HMS Broke._

In the chaos that followed Wood reported to Commander Allen, who told him to return to his own ship and make preparations there to take on board the crew of _HMS Broke_. Upon returning to the _Sparrowhawk_ , Wood was told by his own captain, Lieutenant-Commander Sydney Hopkins, that he had just sent exactly the same message across to _Broke_ and before anyone realised what had happened approximately twenty men from _Sparrowhawk_ had evacuated onto _HMS Broke_ while fifteen of _Broke's_ crew crossed to _HMS Sparrowhawk._

To make matters worse a third destroyer, _HMS Contest_ , then steamed into _Sparrowhawk._

Thankfully _Contest_ emerged relatively unharmed but _Broke_ and _Sparrowhwak_ remained  wedged together for about half an hour before they could be separated and Broke got underway. At this point, the reports informed the nation, _Sparrowhawk_ had still possessed engine power but the rudder was jammed to one side so she could do nothing except steam in circles, near the burning destroyer _HMS Tipperary_. At around 0200 a German torpedo boat approached, coming within 100 yards of them, but then turned away. Only one gun was still functional, the others too badly damaged, and this gun had reportedly been manned by the captain and his officers as the gun crews had all been killed or injured.

They had held their fire, however, in the hope the German would not initiate an attack _Sparrowhawk_ could not hope to survive and mercifully their prayers had been answered.

A little while later _HMS Tipperary_ had finally sunk, putting out the fire which was attracting attention to the area, but this had not brought about an end to the _Sparrowhawks_ plight.

At around 0330 they had sighted a German cruiser, causing considerable alarm, but shortly afterwards the ship was seen to list sideways and then sink, her bow disappearing first. This, the papers reliably informed Thomas and the millions of other readers desperate for any information at all, had been the _SMS Elbing_ , which had been successfully sunk by torpedo.

Still the night wasn’t over for the remaining crew of the _Sparrowhawk_ as at 0610 a small raft approached carrying twenty-three men from _HMS Tipperary_. Sadly three were found to be already dead while five more died after being taken on board the badly damaged destroyer.

As a testament to how badly damaged _HMS Sparrowhawk_ was and how rough the seas had become _HMS Marksman_ was unable to attach two hawsers to the damaged ship almost an hour after they’d picked up the survivors from _Tipperary_. With reports of submarines still active nearby it was decided that _Sparrowhawk_ must be abandoned, and _Marksman_ fired eighteen shells into her to ensure that she sank. Miraculously after everything she had been through _Sparrowhawk_ only suffered the loss of six men, killed during the actual collision.

 _HMS Turbulent,_ of the 10th Destroyer Flotillam was the last ship to be lost that night.

She was lost whilst attempting to follow the ships in front of her as she had been instructed to do as they crossed in front of what turned out to be the German battle line shortly after midnight. _HMS Petard,_ the ship directly in front of her, was caught out first and with none of her torpedoes left her only option was to run. She was hit, thankfully not badly, and was able to escape with the Germans suddenly turned their attention solely on _HMS Turbulent_.

She was left in a truly hopeless position; unable to run, unable to fight back.

In an act of what Thomas surmised to be utter desperation she had apparently turned to starboard in order to avoid being rammed head on, thus placing her all but alongside _SMS Westfalen_ where she could do nothing to save herself. _Turbulent_ had, by all accounts, been literally blown out of the water when her boilers exploded after being struck by enemy fire.

Of her crew ninety were killed and the surviving thirteen had become prisoners of war.

Thomas knew none of this when he was sat in his hospital bed, however, nor did any of the civilian patients glaring at the four wounded _Warriors_ across from them. It would be months before the men would read the truth, would regret their harsh words. Just then, instead, a truce was brokered between the two sides of the ward; don’t mention the battle of Jutland.

“Right, well, now that that’s settled…” Thomas muttered to himself following the cessation of hostilities on the ward, kicking his bed sheets off of his legs before climbing out of bed. It was a good thing it was relatively warm at the moment, he realised, otherwise his bare feet might have frozen to the floor if it were any colder. “Anyone know where back injuries go?”

“You’re not allowed out of bed let alone out of the ward,” one of the civilians hissed, alarmed, leaning forwards to check that the ward nurse was still busy behind the screen of one of the civilian patients whose dressing had needed changing. “They’ll skin you alive.”

Pausing only for a moment Thomas finally shrugged, thinking about all of the stupid things he’d done whilst in service at Downton Abbey when he’d been told not to. This was no more risky than pinching a bottle of Lord Grantham’s favourite wine out of the locked cupboard in Carson pantry, he reasoned, and he needed to reassure himself that Matthew was alright.

“Never mind,” he sighed, referring to his earlier query. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

And with that said he was off, tiptoeing past the screened off bed before slipping out of the ward and into the generic corridor. He stuck out like a saw thumb in his pyjamas but walked with purpose, blending in by making it seem as though he was meant to be there, and none of the doctors, nurses or orderlies that he passed gave him a second glance as he began the mind-numbing task of checking each and every ward until he found his missing Lieutenant.

Eventually, after going down a floor and all the way across to the other side of the building, he spotted a familiar head of blond hair upon a pillow at the far end of the ward. Letting out a sigh of relief, his feet aching after walking around the hospital for over an hour, he pushed open the door and slipped into the ward. Offering the nurse on duty a smile and nod, acting for all the world as though he was meant to be there, he made his way across to Matthew.

“Sir?”

A familiar pair of blue eyes snapped open.

“Thomas?” he gasped, surprise heavy in his voice as his gaze tracked the former footman as Thomas moved to sit in the chair beside Matthews bed. “What…what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d come and see how you were doing, sir.”

Matthew seemed genuinely surprised and more than a little bit touched by this.

“So, what did the doctor say?” Thomas enquired after a pause. “About your back?”

Matthews’s expression fell.

“Permanent, or so they think,” he announced morosely, his hands clenching where they rest on top of his bedsheets. “So once my spine had stabilised and my burns have healed, which are minimal, by the way, I am to be sent home to convalesce and _adapt to my limitations_.”

Thomas couldn’t help but wince.

“I asked about…about whether or not I shall be able to father a child, given that I am the current heir to the Earl of Grantham and any son of mine shall be the next heir,” Matthew continued, his voice become more and more bitter with every word he spoke. “They said it would be highly unlikely that a man in my condition would ever be able to father a child.”

Oh.

No wonder he seemed so depressed.

“I shall have to write to Lavinia,” Matthew sighed, his voice suddenly filled with pain and regret. “I had been planning to propose but that will be impossible now. She deserves…”

“Someone who loves her,” Thomas interrupted him quickly, speaking up for the young woman he’d never even met. “Someone who trusts her to make her own decisions.”

“I…”

“You should write to her, yes, but don’t end things before they’ve truly begun,” Thomas found himself advising the future Earl of Grantham. “Let her decide if her feelings for you are real enough to keep her by your side. You never know, she might surprise you. Sir.”

The honorific was tagged on at the last minute as he finally remembered himself.

“But…a marriage without even the possibility of children…”

“That’s just the opinion of one doctor,” Thomas interrupted him once more. “Once they send you back to Downton get Clarkson to give you a second opinion. Or send for one of Lord Grantham’s specialists from Harley Street. Don’t just...lay there and give up on life.”

“Well said,” the patient in the next bed over called out. “Listen to your friend. I thought my Dora would leave me after I fell from my crane and broke my back but she didn’t. I’m sure there are some women that would have but my Dora is made of stronger stuff than that. And you won’t know if your lady friend is too unless you give her the chance to prove it.”

“…you really think so?”

Both Thomas and the other patient confirmed their agreement quickly.

“Then I will,” Matthew sighed, hope finally appearing in his voice. “Thank you.”

“Might want to write to your family as well,” Thomas suggested. “That way they can get things ready for you and get Clarkson to start looking into alternative treatments and such.”

At the same time that Matthew was discharging his letters to a helpful VAD nurse, not one of the gaggle that had helped them the day before, the occupants of Downton Abbey, both upstairs and down, were left reeling by the news that _HMS Warrior_ had been abandoned by her crew after doing disabled during the battle. There were no lists of the dead, not yet, and so the household could only pray that they hadn’t lost a second heir to the seas icy waters.

~ * ~

 **A/N1 -** An extra-long chapter to apologise for the delay in updating any of my other stories whilst I completed a writing challenge on ‘Rough Trade.’ I hope it wasn’t too much like a history book but I’m afraid I got a bit carried away in a couple of places, particularly regarding the fates of the various British ships that were lost at Jutland. Information for these parts was gathered from several books I own and, for my sins, Wikipedia although all of these facts were double checked. In regards to the medical portions of this chapter I am first aid trained but that’s it so please excuse any glaring mistakes. Comments welcome. X

**A/N2 (a.k.a a couple of fun naval facts I couldn’t work into the story but wanted to share)**

It sounds strange but the loss of _Defence_ and _Warrior_ actually ended up playing a part in _World War Two_. During the _Battle of Jutland_ the destroyer _HMS Onslow_ had been badly damaged whilst engaging in a torpedo attack of the German fleet, most critically in that her speed had been reduced to only ten knots. She was trying to get away from the German fleet when the more interesting targets _Defence_ , _Warrior_ and then _Warspite_ drew their fire away from her, allowing her to escape. How this ended up playing a part in the outcome of _World War Two_ was relatively simple; her commander at the time, John Tovey, went on to play a part in the sinking of the infamous German battleship, _Bismarck_ , on 26th May 1941.

And regarding the rum ration it might surprise some people to learn that the Royal Navy only abolished this tradition in 1970 due to a concern about sailors failing a breathalyser test and therefore being “less capable” to manage complex machinery. The last rum ration was issued on 31st July 1970 and became known as “ _Black Tot Day_ ” as sailors were unhappy about the loss of the rum ration. There were reports that the day involved sailors throwing their tots into the sea and even the staging of a mock funeral for the lost Naval tradition.

While the rum ration was abolished, the order to " _splice the mainbrace_ " which is a way of awarding sailors an extra tot of rum for good service, has remained a command which could only be given by the Monarch and is still used to recognise good service. Rum rations are also given out on special occasions such as after the _Queen's Diamond Jubilee_ celebrations.

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Rosyth  
November 1916 **

It felt somewhat strange to dress himself in uniform after the months he’d spent living in hospital pyjamas as his wounds were treated and then, once they had healed to a suitable level, been given a series of exercises to complete in the hopes that they would return some of the mobility he had lost due to the burns he’d sustained. Thus far they’d been working, his fingers slowly becoming easier to move, although he’d been warned by several nurses not to expect a miracle; his hands would never return to how they had been before Jutland.

Despite his lack of recent practice applying each piece was second-nature and in no time at all he stood beside his hospital bed in his brand new uniform, the fabric unpleasantly stiff and itchy in a couple of places as it hadn’t been broken in, and was therefore ready to go.

His kitbag lay upon his bed already packed, filed not only with the replacement wash kit and spare pieces of uniform he’d been issued with but also a number of gifts that he’d received from his fellow patients and the nurses at the hospital, most notably a pair of soft brown leather gloves he could wear to hide the scars on his hands should he ever feel the need to.

The scars were pretty horrific, unfortunately, with the palm on his left hand being the worst, twisted into something wholly unrecognisable. It was due to the tightness of the scar tissue that he’d been given the exercises as without them his fingers would have eventually lost the ability to straighten out at all. As it was they were still permanently bent. On his right hand the scar was smaller and on the back of his hand, covering his thumb and forefinger and extending down to his wrist, and he struggled to bend all but his ring and little finger.

As much as he’d love to wear those gloves now, the sight upsetting him almost as much as it had upset some of the hospital visitors that he had met over the last few months, they were sadly in breach of the strict regulations that he’d sworn to obey when he’d joined the Navy.

Picking up his cap he paused, gazing down at the ships name embroidered on the tally.

He’d still been expecting, if only in the back of his mind, to see _HMS Warrior_ and was taken by surprise to see _HMS Warspite_ there instead. His assignment to the ship who was partially responsible for the fact that he was still alive had come through a couple of weeks earlier, when his discharge from hospital had been confirmed, and had made him smile at the time.

Now it made him pause.

It felt wrong to be joining a ship that wasn’t the _Warrior_ , his first ship, the only ship that he had ever served on and had ever thought that he would serve on, in the same way that it would have felt wrong to leave Downton Abbey in favour of one of its closest neighbours.

Everything would be familiar and yet different all at the same time.

 _Warspite_ was actually in _Rosyth_ for repairs, according to the Officer who had brought his assignment paperwork to him the day before, after a collision with _HMS Valiant_ during a night-shooting exercise not long after the ship has re-joined the _Grand Fleet_ following the extensive repairs that she had needed after the Battle of Jutland which, he’d learned, was why the date of his hospital discharge had been unexpectedly brought forwards by a week.

It made sense to send him to join the ship now, he supposed, whilst she was already in port rather than waiting another couple of weeks so that he could be discharged on the date that they’d originally decided upon by which time he would have had to wait, idling his time away in _Rosyth_ until the next time that _Warspite_ returned to the Naval Base for supplies.

No, discharging him early was the right choice even it was at short notice.

“Good luck, Tommy.”

Offering his fellow patients a smile and a nod, ignoring the fact that they’d all insides on calling him Tommy since he’d arrived, he wished them all the best with their continued recoveries, kisses the nurses on duty on the cheek, picked up his kit bag and left the ward.

He didn’t head down to the transport that he had been told was waiting to take him to the station by one of the hospital orderlies, however, as he had one more farewell to make first.

Lieutenant Matthew Crawley.

He had been refused his transfer to the hospital in Downton, under the care of Major Clarkson, on the grounds that it was for officers of the British Army not the Royal Navy.

Lady Cora had not been impressed.

He was due to return to the Abbey once he was discharged from both the hospital and the Royal Navy but given the nature of his injuries that could take some time, unfortunately.

Due to the fact that he had snuck out to visit Lieutenant Crawley every single day, so much so that the nurses and orderlies had eventually given up trying to stop him, the journey he took was as familiar to him as the servants corridors of the Abbey had been and as such he was entering the other ward in a matter of minutes. His kitbag he abandoned by the door, leaving it against the wall so that it was out of the way as he moved to Matthews bedside.

“Looking very smart, Thomas. Come to bid me farewell?”

“That’s right, sir,” Thomas murmured, standing at ease beside the bed. Unlike some of the patients in the spinal injury ward Matthew could still move and use the top half of his body and so was propped up by several pillows, allowing him as much independence as he could manage. Some of the others had no use of their limbs at all. “I’m joining _Warspite_ today.”

“Well, you make sure to thank her for saving our necks,” Matthew instructed him, only half joking. Those who hadn’t served, they’d both noticed since arriving in the hospital, couldn’t seem to understand why they referred to their ships as though they were living beings with feelings and personalities. “But before you go I have an important question to ask you…”

“Sir?”

“After I get out of here I’m going to need help,” Matthew admitted, reluctantly. His hands fluttered briefly before settling on his thighs. “Cousin Robert has suggested that I take on a suitable valet to see to my needs and look after me. I know he will have some candidates lined up but I would like to offer the position to you as thanks for saving my life at Jutland.”

Him?

A valet?

It was...it was something he’d always wanted...

“I understand that currently the Royal Navy is in charge of your immediate future but once this war has come to an end the position shall be yours,” Matthew continued, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in an unusual show of nerves. “That is, if you’re interested...”

“Want it?” Thomas repeated. “Of course I want it!”

He’d been trying not to think about what would become of him once the war finally reached its conclusion and he returned to civilian life. With scars like he had it would be very difficult to find a position in service without having some sort of a connection with either the family or the staff below stairs and, given the way that he’d left things at the Abbey following the actions he had taken against Mr Bates, or “Long John Silver” as he’d referred to him back then, in an effort to get the other man fired, actions which had included framing him for a theft he himself had committed after framing him for one that he’d faked, with the help of Miss O’Brien, hadn’t worked and convincing Daisy, their naïve young kitchen maid, to lie for him he’d already written off returning to his previous place of employment as a lost cause.

But now...

“Good. That’s good,” Matthew sighed with relief. “I’ll put Cousin Robert off, then, and just use one of the footmen or something until you are able to come and take up your position.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thomas, this is _my_ way of thanking _you_ ,” the future Earl of Grantham murmured sincerely, grabbing hold of Thomas’ hand with both of his. “Some men would have left me to my fate, duty be damned, but you stayed. You stayed even after you were injured and got me out.”

“Well, I couldn’t leave you to just... _burn_...”

“You could have, actually, and the fact that you didn’t is why I want you to be my valet.”

It hadn’t once crossed his mind to leave the Lieutenant to his fate that day, Thomas recalled, and even if it hadn’t been Matthew he would still have stayed to help whoever it had been.

As a stretcher bearer it had been his job.

“Thank you,” he murmured once more, using his free hand to pull one of Matthew’s hands out of the way so that he could give the remaining hand a firm shake. “And, should I survive this war and the Royal Navy has no more use for me I shall present myself at the Abbey to take up my position as your valet, sir, so long as you haven’t change your mind by then...”

“I won’t,” Matthew reiterated firmly. “The jobs yours, Thomas, and that’s the end of it.”

And that was the end of it, mostly because Thomas feared he’d miss his train if he put off leaving the hospital any longer. Saying his goodbyes to his future employer he hurried out to the transport, an ambulance that was going to pick up some men from the train station, and jumped into the back of it. The journey was pretty much a reverse of the journey that had brought him to the hospital, Thomas even sitting in the same seat, although it wasn’t as cramped so he was more comfortable and was able to take up the entire seat by himself.

The station was busy, a train having just pulled in filled with soldiers, sailors and civilians.

He thanked the ambulance driver and made his way into the platform, stopping at the ticket office to get his railway warrant stamped and find out which train he needed to catch and then once he knew where he needed to be he found somewhere to sit until his train arrived.

No one was sneering at him this time.

In fact in the time that it took for his train to arrive he was thanked three times and an old soldier, his medal ribbons sewn into his dark grey jacket, bought him a steaming cup of tea.

The difference was palpable.

Boarding his train he eventually found an empty compartment and took one of the window seats, putting his kitbag in the luggage rack above his seat, and then settled in with a book.

He’d never been a big reader before ending up stuck in hospital. Since then he’d discovered a love of fiction, of immersing himself in the different stories and worlds and adventures.

The compartment filled up quickly, a young woman with three children, an elderly couple and a military chaplain, complete with dog collar, who seemed to love the sound of his own voice as he regaled them all with the tale of his volunteering to join the troops in France.

Thomas ignored the chaplain in favour of finding out whether or not Dorothy managed to defeat the Wicked Witch of the West. It was a children’s book, written by an American, but one of the nurses had recommended it and he’d thoroughly enjoyed every single page of it.

Alighting at the correct station, stowing his book back inside his kitbag, he hefted the canvas bag over his shoulder and followed the flow of sailors returning to their ships after a spot of leave along a series of back roads until they reached the large main gate of the Naval Base.

“What ship are you joining?”

The question came from the armed guard on the gate who was checking all of their passes and paperwork before letting them enter. His own paperwork had already been passed over, scrutinised approved and were in the process of being return as Thomas answered,

“ _Warspite_.”

“She’s still in dry dock. You can’t miss her.”

“Thanks.”

Spotting _HMS Warspite_ was every bit as easy as the guard had said it would be as she was the only ship currently being repaired; the others were docked alongside the pier so that they could be resupplied. Thomas wasn’t the only sailor to veer off towards the dry dock, making his way along to the gangplank which had been erected to allow men to move on and off of the ship. Usually Thomas had no problem crossing the gangplank but usually it was over water, admittedly dangerous water between their ship and whatever they were docked against, but with it suspended over a drop of ten metres he found himself holding his breath as he made his way across. The dry-dock was a clever piece of engineering, he supposed once he’d safety reached the ship, saluting the white ensign as he stepped on board, as it allowed work to be done on a ship’s hull once the water had been drained out.

And whilst falling into the water between the ship and the side would probably killed you there was still a small chance of survival if you were very lucky there was no way a person would survive falling into a dry dock, not with the deep steps made of stone that lined the sides creating sharp angles and corners that would break a sailors spine in two on impact.

Thomas reported in with the quartermaster, gladly giving his new rank which had come with the transfer to _HMS Warspite_ ; he was now a _Leading Seaman_ and would be taking over the position of _Chief Officers Steward_ thanks to the recommendation of his former Captain, the former _Chief Officers Steward_ sadly having been struck down by pneumonia. He was now in hospital, or rather the sick bay of the Naval Base, recovering and Thomas found it somewhat amusing, as inappropriate as that was, that the two of them had effectively swapped places.

“Mason, here, will get you situated.”

“Mason?” Thomas reared back from the quartermaster, turning to face the young man the officer had indicated, half-expecting to find a familiar face. He was relieved, and there was no other word for it, to find himself facing a complete stranger. “Get Barrow sorted out.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mason, who appeared to be one of the stewards who Thomas would be in charge of, would have been considered handsome if it weren’t for his prominent ears and his thick eyebrows.

“What’s your name, Mason?”

If the other steward was surprised to be ask he didn’t show it.

“Brynn,” he answered, his thick Welsh accent surprising Thomas. “My names Brynn Mason.”

Unlike the Mason that Thomas had known back in service the young man that stood before him didn’t smile at all as he spoke, even though he seemed happy enough, and his tone of voice, despite the natural lyrical nature of his accent, was about as serious as he could get.

In short he was nothing like William, as far as first impressions went, which was a relief.

He didn’t fancy serving alongside a reminder of one of the things he’d grown to be ashamed of in the two years since he’d joined the Royal Navy, the war having forced him to grow up in a way that he hadn’t realised that he needed to at the time. One thing he had promised himself he’d do after the war would be find William and offer him the apology he deserved.

“Right,” Thomas murmured, hefting his kitbag up onto his shoulder with practiced ease. “Let’s get my kit stowed away and then I want you to introduce me to this beautiful lady.”

Mason nodded.

 _Warspite,_ as a _Queen Elizabeth class Battleship_ or a _Super-Dreadnought_ as they were also known, was a larger ship than Thomas was used to. She had a displacement of 29,700 tons, more than double the weight of _HMS Warrior_ , and despite this was still able to match his previous ships top speed of 23 knots. He learned all of this from Mason who turned out to be a wealth of knowledge as they traversed the entire length and breadth of the ship once Thomas had been relieved of his kit, his guide for the morning obediently taking him from the tip of her bow to the screws at her stern and everywhere in between, paying particular attention to the parts of the ship where he would spend most of his time. And then there was her armament; eight 15-inch guns, fourteen 6-inch guns and two 4-inch anti-aircraft guns. There was talk of two 3-inch anti-aircraft guns being added sometime in the future.

It made _HMS Warriors_ six 9.2-inch Mk X guns, four 7.5-inch Mk II or Mk V guns, twenty-six 3-pounder guns and three submerged 18-inch torpedo tubes seem more than a little inferior.

As planned they ended the tour of the ship in the Wardroom.

“…it can’t be…”

The cultured voice was so familiar that it literally stopped Thomas in his tracks.

No…

It couldn’t be…

Turning so as to face the owner of the voice he found none other than Philip Villiars, the Duke of Crowborough himself, stood in the corner of the room holding a cup and saucer.

“Thomas,” he chuckled, setting the cup and saucer down on the nearest table to him before hurrying forwards to grab hold of Thomas’ right hand, shaking it with a smile only to pause, his smile dropping into a deep frown as he glanced down.“…what happened to your hand?”

“…Your Grace…” Thomas murmured, falling back on his training as a footmen even as his mind spun in response to meeting his former lover. “And I was wounded at Jutland, sir.”

Coffee coloured eyes snapped up to meet his, filled with a surprising amount of worry,

“What ship were you on?”

“ _HMS Warrior_ , sir,” Thomas answered, turning his left hand over to show off his other scars whilst pulling his right hand free of the Dukes loosening grip. He became aware of the fact that everyone else in the room, not just Philip, reacted to his announcement with a look of surprise and respect. “And, actually, I have you and your fellow crew members to thank for the fact that I’m standing here. If you hadn’t circled us when you did we’d have been sunk.”

“Well, I wish we could take the credit for that but we had no control of our steering at the time,” Philip admitted, offering Thomas a painfully handsome smile as his fellow officers chuckled in agreement. “We took a hit to the port-wing engine room whilst performing a manoeuvre to avoid hitting _Valiant_ and _Malaya_. It was an accident, a fortunate accident for you, that we ended up circling you whilst we worked to restore our ability to steer the ship.”

“Less fortunate for us, of course,” one of the other officers announced, prompting Philip to shoot him a smile. They were both Lieutenant’s, Thomas noticed although his former lovers uniform was of a much higher quality. “We were hit thirteen times whilst circling you guys.”

“Well, accident or not you saved our lives, sir, we were very grateful for the time you gave us to get our engines working again or else we’d never have made it out of there,” Thomas announced, offering every sailor in the room a grateful smile. “We were in bad shape...”

“We could tell,” another officer announced with a booming laugh. “I for one wasn’t at all surprised to hear you’d floundered on the way back to port. Lucky _Engadine_ found you.”

“Very lucky,” Thomas agreed without censure. “We owe them even more than you.”

“How many did you lose?”

This question came from a serious looking man nursing a whiskey over by the stove.

“Seventy-one killed,” Thomas answered softly. “Thirty-six wounded. You?”

“We lost fourteen men,” the officer replied, knocking back his drink. “Thirty-two wounded.”

“By the time we managed to sort out our steering problems we were on a direct course with the German Fleet,” Philip explained, his own voice taking on a more serious tone. “We’d lost out rangefinders, and the transmission station, and by then only ‘A’ turret could fire so our aim was a little bit off so we stopped firing for ten minutes to make the necessary repairs.”

Thomas nodded in understanding.

“We were too damaged to have much to do with the night action,” Philip continued, his words bringing forth a grunt of agreement from some of his fellow officers. “As we could still travel under our own steam we were ordered to head for home which wasn’t quite as easy as we would have perhaps liked; we came across not one but two German U-boats on our way home. The first had _terrible_ aim, missed us with three torpedoes, and the second was just sitting there on the surface but the damned thing dived before we could ram her.”

“Very unsporting of them,” another officer snorted. “So you’re Keller’s replacement, then?”

“I am, sir,” Thomas answered, supposing that Keller must be the name of the former _Chief Officer’s Steward_. He stood to his full height, cap tucked under his arm where he’d placed it upon entering the Wardroom, shoulders pulled back smartly. “Leading Seaman Barrow, sir.”

“And you know Barrow how?”

This question was addressed to Philip who smirked across at Thomas as he answered,

“I was a guest at Downton Abbey, home of the Earl of Grantham, before the war where Thomas, my apologies, Barrow was employed as a footman. First footman, if I recall?”

Thomas nodded in answer to his query.

“As my own valet had fallen ill prior to my visit Barrow was promoted temporarily to care for me for the duration of my stay at the family and he made a rather good impression on me so I can reassure you that we’re in good hands, gentlemen,” Philip continued, choosing his words very carefully as he could hardly say that he and Thomas had shared a summer dalliance together before his visit to Downton. “And on that note I would love a cup of tea.”

“Certainly, sir,” Thomas agreed, offering the Duke a respectful nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

It was a relief to slip out of the Wardroom, so much so that as he followed the route Mason had shown him to the galley he couldn’t stop the long exhalation of air that escaped his lips.

Was he cursed?

Not one but _two_ faces from his past of the two ships he’d been assigned to?

And one of them his ex-lover whom he had attempted to _blackmail_?

He’d been looking forward to getting to sea again but now?

Now he was dreading what the future would hold.

And not because of the Germans, as most people would expect upon hearing such a statement. No, it was because of his ex-lover, Philip Villiers, the Duke of Crowborough.

Why did this have to happen to him?

~ * ~

 **A/N** I can’t decide yet whether the Duke is going to have gotten over the blackmail attempt or not so we shall have to wait and see what happens when I start work on the next chapter. As it is I’ve finally figured out how my pairings are going to work out so shall be editing the tags accordingly. Comments and Suggestions are always welcome. Until next time. Marblez.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
** **CHAPTER NINE**

**Rosyth  
July 1917 **

_Miss Sarah O’Brien_

_C/O Downton Abbey_

_Downton_

_Yorkshire_

_Dear Miss O’Brien,_

_I apologise for the delay in responding to your last letter but this is the first time that we have returned to port since your last letter arrived. Thank you for your news of what has been happening at the Abbey; it feels like an entire lifetime has passed since I was last able to join you in the servants courtyard for a cigarette and a gossip as we avoided Mr Carson._

_I often find myself thinking of our time together when I am catching a quick smoke up on deck. It’s not the same, of course, and not just because the company here is different. No, one of the things that I have found myself missing is the sound of the wind moving through the trees. That and the smell of the rain which is even more ridiculous as its not as though we don’t get rain when we’re out at sea, quite the opposite, but there’s just something so different about it. Probably has something to do with the ever present smell of salt water._

_Life aboard my new ship is pretty much the same as it was on my last one although the men under my command needed a bit of sorting out to begin with, their performance not quite what it should have been, but with some training and leadership on my part we are now a perfect example of what a team of Officers Stewards should be aboard a ship such as this._

_We have been patrolling in the North Sea recently, keeping a watchful eye out just in case the Germans decide to try and make another break for it, but so far everything has been quiet. In fact the most exciting moment from our last trip came from an incident with one of our own ships in the form of an unexpected collision. There is still much debate about which ship was at fault but thankfully neither was damaged enough to require that we put into port, rather all repairs were made whilst we were still underway. Miraculously there were only a few minor injuries, such as a sprained ankle and a broken wrist, which was very lucky._

_I don’t know if you remember from my earlier letters but this is actually the second time that this particular ship has suffered an unexpected collision with one of our own ships although last time the collision took place during a night exercise; this time it was in broad daylight._

_Some of the men are beginning to wonder if she’s cursed._

_I myself don’t believe in curses, just that we could probably do with a new navigator._

_How are things at the Abbey since your last letter?_

_Has Lieutenant Crawley been discharged from the hospital? He was most anxious to return home when I saw him last but the Doctors were still concerned about the state of his spine._

_And what of those who are serving in France?_

_Has there been any word from William and the others? We’ve been getting mixed reports about what it’s really like over there, with the newspapers saying one things and military reports and gossip saying another. One of the men I spoke to referred to it as hell on earth._

_Is Lady Sybil still nursing?_

_Since having been a patient myself my admiration for her chosen path during this war has increased for the young women that cared for me were some of the toughest and strongest I’ve ever met. I’m not sure I could manage to remain as bright and cheerful as they always were should I ever be called upon to clean out wounds as grisly as mine were at the time._

_And is Lady Edith still driving?_

_I still find it hard to picture her behind the wheel of a motorised vehic---_

The hand moving the pen across the page skidded uncontrollably, creating a thick line that crossed through most of his letter, as the entire ship rocked from the force of an explosion.

What had happened?

They were anchored in _Scapa Flow_ along with most of the fleet waiting for their turn to be resupplied and had spent the day improving their response times to various drills, such as going to battle stations or abandoning ship. It was now fast approaching midnight, most of the crew already asleep and Thomas had decided to pen a letter to Miss O’Brien before he followed his colleagues into the land of dreams. None of the crew had been expecting _this_.

Had a German U-boat managed to breach the defences surrounding the anchorage site?

Had they been hit?

Abandoning his letter, heedless of the ink dripping from his pen onto the floor as this too was dropped carelessly in his haste to make his way up on deck, he followed the flow of barely dressed men else who were as desperate to find out what was going on as he was.

Spilling out onto the deck he couldn’t help but feel relieved to see the familiar orange glow of a ship on fire in the distance, reassuring all of them that they weren’t the one in trouble.

But then, who was it?

Who had been hit?

It wasn’t until the morning that they learned that no one had been hit, that the explosion had come from within the poor unfortunate ship that had met its untimely end that night.

 _HMS Vanguard_ had only anchored in the northern part _Scapa Flow_ a few hours before it exploded with no warning at all at 2320. Of their crew three survived but one, sadly, died shortly afterwards bringing the total of men lost up to 843. It was reported at a much later date that this number also included two Australian stokers from the light cruiser _HMAS Sydney_ who had had the misfortune to be serving time in the battleships brig when the explosion tore through the ship and a military observer from the _Imperial Japanese Navy._

A _Board of Inquiry_ was held some time later and, after hearing the accounts of the many witnesses from the ships surrounding _HMS Vanguard_ , accepted that there had been an explosion, small and with a white glare, between the foremast and 'A' turret, followed by two much larger explosions shortly thereafter. Given the evidence that was provided the board decided that the main detonations came from either 'P' magazine, 'Q' magazine, or both of them. Given the damage done to the ship it was relatively easy to pinpoint the fact that the explosions were in fact a detonation of the cordite charges in a main magazine it was significantly more challenging for them to deduce the exact cause of the explosions.

One of the theories that came up during the inquiry was that some of the cordite on board, which had been temporarily offloaded in December of the previous year and catalogued, was past its stated “safe life” and therefore could have suffered a case of spontaneous combust ions, resulting in the devastating detonation. There was no way to prove this, however, and so the board moved onto the other theories such as the fact that a number of the ships boilers were still in use and that some of the water tights doors, which should have been closed as per the wartime regulations, had been left open whilst the ship was in port.

It was suggested that this could have contributed to a dangerously high temperature in the magazines which could have easily started a fire in a four-inch magazine. This would have been the first, smaller, explosion and Thomas knew just how quickly flames could spread on board a ship so it made sense that the main magazines would have exploded soon after.

It was this run of events that the board eventually settled upon for their final verdict.

Several ships were hit by debris from the explosion, _Warspite_ included, but it was the battleship _Bellerophon_ that collected an important piece of debris from their own deck.

It was a section of plating, measuring approximately six by four feet, that was found to be from No. 2 Hydraulic Room abaft 'A' barbet and was presented to the _Board of Inquiry_ as a piece of evidence as it showed no signs of a blast from 'A' magazine, reinforcing the many witness statements which suggested the explosion took place in the central part of the ship.

On _Warspite_ the biggest piece of shrapnel they found was no bigger than a cricket ball.

As there had been nothing any of them could do to help the crew of _Warspite_ were sent back to their hammocks or, if they were on duty, back to work. The letter was waiting for him when he returned to his hammock, a small pool of ink surrounding the tip of his pen.

Cursing he mopped up the ink with his handkerchief, already dreading getting it clean again, and hurriedly set about finishing off his letter so that he could get some much needed sleep.

_Apologies for the mess; a ship exploded nearby which caused our ship to rock unexpectedly._

_I’m fine, before you worry, and our ship was undamaged._

_I’ll close now as I need to get some shuteye before reporting for duty in the morning._

_Take care._

_All the best,_

_Chief Officers Steward_

_Leading Seaman Thomas Barrow_

_HMS Warspite_

He had no doubt that the censors would probably cut out certain parts of his letter, most probably the end of his signature just in case his letter somehow fell into enemy hands, but he still included all of the details he always had when writing letters to his closest friend.

If they wanted to censor his mail then they could but he wouldn’t do their jobs for them.

Sealing the letter inside an envelope he quickly added her address to the front, his current address on board ship to the back, and applied his last stamp. He would need to get more.

That done he tucked it inside one of his boots so that he would remember to post it in the morning, carefully climbed into his hammock and was sound asleep in a matter of seconds.

~ * ~

When Thomas had first joined _Warspite_ eight months ago and had discovered that Philip was an officer on board he’d been worried about the way things had ended between them.

It’d taken less than a week for him to realise that he needn’t have given it a passing thought.

“We both behaved badly the last time we saw each other, Thomas,” Philip had opened with after managing to convince Thomas to join him in his cabin. “I should never had stolen my letters to you, nor burnt them so callously in front of you but I was under a lot of pressure.”

Thomas, still bitter about their last meeting, had scoffed.

“Pressure?”

“My mother found one of your letters that I had been reading. She…” Philip had broken off, a look of fear flashing across his face. It had stunned Thomas for he’d never seen his former lover appear anything other than calm and collected, even during their final confrontation he’d been completely in control of himself. “She threatened to track you down and report you to the police if I did not end things between us and turn my attention towards doing my duty to the family. They’d have sent you to prison and I couldn’t…that’s why I accepted your invitation to come to Downton to try for Lady Mary when we still believed she would inherit the Estate. I had to protect you, to protect us from my mother. I had already destroyed your letters to me but couldn’t risk mine to you ever being discovered by the wrong individual.”

“…why didn’t you just _tell_ me that was the reason behind it?” Thomas had demanded, a lump forming unexpectedly in his throat as he remembered the shame he had felt, the anger and the bitterness of betrayal. “I loved you, truly I did, and I would have understood.”

“But I didn’t love you, Thomas, not the way you loved me,” Philip had confessed on a rush, his words entering Thomas’ heart like the stab of a knife. “I cared for you, of course I did or I wouldn’t have behaved as I did, but it was love for a kindred spirit than that of a soulmate.”

His words had shocked Thomas into silence.

“I’m married now,” Philip had continued, his cheeks flushing slightly as Thomas had stared at him, his face blank with shock. “We were married shortly before the war. She’s American, from new money but _money is money_ in the eyes of my family, and we have a two-year-old son. I haven’t…I haven’t been intimate with a man since the last time we were together...”

“I did love you,” Thomas had reiterated, clenching his hands as much as he could with the relatively fresh scar tissue that covered them. “And I wish that you’d told me how you truly felt. It would’ve saved me suffering in silence after you were gone. But I suppose…I suppose I can understand why you did what you did and, perhaps, I could forgive you, if that’s what you want? Forgiveness? It seems foolish to hold onto such an old grudge when we could be blown to kingdom come any day now, don’t you think? So long as you’ll forgive my trying…”

“…to blackmail me?” Philip had chuckled sadly. “Thomas, I’d forgiven you before you’d even left the room, despite my words to you. I could see how much I had hurt you, just as I could recognise the signs of desperation. Wicked as our kind are supposed to be, according to some, I don’t think either one of us would have been able to go through with our threats.”

“So…we’re going to let bygones be bygones?”

“Yes,” Philip had agreed, extending his hand. After a long moment Thomas had nodded once, somewhat sharply, and shook his ex-lovers hand. “Now, I think we should catch up.”

Thereafter had followed a conversation about their experiences over the last few years.

It had been a week later that Philip had approached him with the suggestion that they enter into something akin to a relationship with an understanding that nothing would come of it once the war had ended and they returned to their former lives. Thomas had needed a day or two to think it over; on the one hand he was worried that his heart and his mind wouldn’t be on the same page and he’d end up falling into the same trap as before, loving Philip in spite of everything, whilst on the other hand he was a different man now, older and he liked to think wiser. That and he was lonely, not having found any other _kindred spirits_ on board his second ship unlike back on _Warrior_ where he’d had a few lovers on the go from the start.

He’d agreed, at length, after being plagued by memories of their past lovemaking.

Now that they had cleared the air he had allowed himself to look back upon their time together without anger and bitterness clouding his memories, meaning that he could remember precisely how talented and dedicated the Duke had been to their pleasure.

He’d reiterated the fact that they’d be together only for mutual comfort and nothing more when he’d snuck into Philips cabin to give the Duke his answer, finding him already dressed in his thin pyjamas and ready for bed, and they’d become lovers once more that very night.

~ * ~

Thomas never saw another German ship for the remainder of the war.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, either; their enemy just…wasn’t there.

In April 1918 _HMS Warspite_ was ordered to join the _Grand Fleet_ in what turned out to be a fruitless pursuit of the _German High Seas Fleet_ which had reportedly been sighted hunting for a convoy near Norway. They had all been prepared for another battle such as they had experienced at _Jutland_ and were understandably upset when yet again nothing came of it.

“I suppose there is one thing to be taken from this,” Philip sighed, stretched out on his bunk alongside Thomas, the two of them sharing a cigarette in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Thomas arched an eyebrow at him. “We must have done more damage to the German fleet than we originally thought if they’re not trying to break the blockade now that their people are starving. You never know, could be that this is finally the beginning of the end for them.”

An end to the war…

“Now that’s a thought…”

Months passed with rumours of an Armistice growing, the reports from France claiming that the stalemate continued but that the German side was visibly weakening, mostly due to the lack of supplies both to the front line and their families back home causing a drop in moral.

The German soldiers didn’t want to fight anymore, not if their loved ones were starving.

It was a fire in the boiler room that eventually did for _Warspite_ in the first week of August, sending her back to _Rosyth_ for emergency repairs which would end up taking four months.

Leave was granted to her crew, a rota being drawn up so only a certain number of men were absent from the ship at any one time, whilst those that remained helped with the repairs and kept the ship running, completing drills until they could do them blindfolded.

Thomas was eventually granted leave and departed the ship on Saturday 9th November.

Rather than spend his leave with his family who he hadn’t seen in person since he was fourteen, instead exchanging letters every now and then, or at Downton where only a couple of people would be pleased to see him, his future position as Mr Crawleys valet remaining a secret as far as he knew, he spent the entire day travelling by rail to London.

He would take a room for a week in a hotel that rounding ask any questions and would enjoy a “fun-filled week of sin” in the clubs that he knew about thanks to Philip. Or that was the plan, at least, but by the time he stepped off of the train, stretching out his stiff legs, the entire city was abuzz with the news that the long speculated Armistice was soon to happen.

On Sunday 10th November the news spread that the Kaiser had abdicated.

And then, on Monday 11th November 1918 as 11 o’clock in the morning, the guns fell silent.

The war was over.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I’m sorry that this chapter was a bit bitty but I couldn’t get into a good storyline for Thomas and Philip no matter how hard I tried and so this is what I eventually settled on. Thanks for all of the comments about how they should react to each other; I hope you approve of the conversation I finally had them having. There will be a little bit more of Thomas and his Duke in the next chapter but then we’ll be back on track for the endgame. Also apologies that this chapter is a little short than the previous chapters but the final two years of the war from a Naval point of view were tame after _Jutland_. There were skirmishes but nothing as large as _Jutland_ and unfortunately _Warspite_ didn’t see any more action so there was nothing for me to draw on. Comments and Suggestions welcome as always. X

 **A/N2** Thank you to knullabulla who pointed out a continuity error that I was able to correct. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
** **CHAPTER TEN**

**London  
November 1918**

Thomas had lost count of the number of times his hand had been shaken since the Armistice bringing the war to an end had been announced in the morning papers, of the number of times he’d been hugged and kissed by women of all ages, of the number of drinks that had been passed to him throughout the day simply because he was a young man in a uniform.

The world had gone still, the giddy celebrations coming to an eerie halt around him when the clocks had begun to chime the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the time that the Prime Minister had assured them would bring an end to the terrible hostilities.

No more fighting.

No more killing.

No more war.

It seemed unfathomable and yet, at the same time, obvious.

They had done it.

They had prevailed.

They had won the war.

Someday soon Thomas and those celebrating with him would begin to wonder if the cost was worth it, if the loss of a generation of young men was worth the peace that followed.

But that was a headache for another day.

For now Thomas and his fellow servicemen, all of them receiving the same treatment as he as they were easily identifiable in their uniforms, were content to celebrate that they’d lived through it. He had no doubt that similar celebrations were taking place wherever there had been hostilities, be that on land or at sea, and that there would be a lot of sore heads come the following morning. Accepting another hug and a kiss from a young woman dressed all in black who wore a shiny new wedding ring on her finger, prompting him to identify her as a war widow, he tossed back the glass he’d been hand by an old soldier, choking as the gin hit the back of his throat before descending to join the mixture of beer and spirits already in his stomach. It was a good thing he was used to strong drinks or he’d be on the floor already.

Passing the glass back to the man who he was sure was its owner Thomas ducked around a young soldier, so young and with a uniform still crisp and clean that he had probably never even made it over to the France before the war had ended, who was being hugged so tightly by a large woman that his face was smushed into the valley between her massive breasts.

Not that the lad was complaining, Thomas noticed with a smirk.

It took him almost three times as long as it normally would have to traverse the crowded streets to his destination, the pub he had discovered as a young footman that catered to men with his particular _inclinations_ , and entered to find it just as busy as the streets were.

His arrival was greeted with a rousing cheer,

“Three cheers for the Navy! Hip, hip?”

There was a mixture of “hoorays” and “huzzahs” in response depending on whether or not the owner of each voice was in uniform. A quick glance informed him that he was the only sailor present in the room, explaining the vocal greeting which was repeated twice more.

“And what can I get you to celebrate with?”

This was the barman, a handsome older man with an abundance of grey in his dark hair, and in response Thomas wormed his way through the crowd to reach the polished wooden bar.

“I’ll take whatever’s good but affordable,” he answered, digging into his pocket for his loose change. He didn’t have much on him, unfortunately, as he hadn’t been expecting a day like this when he’d left the hotel he’d checked into for the duration of his leave. “I’ve only got…”

“Get him a pint of your best bitter,” an affected voice to his left ordered, reminding him of the prim way that Philip had spoken before the Navy had got their hands on him. “On me.”

It came as no surprise to Thomas that the owner of the clipped voice was an officer.

British Army, not Royal Navy, and with a chest full of medals that spoke of a career in the military rather than simply stepping up to do his bit for King and Country in a time of war.

“Thanks.”

“No one in uniform should be settling for a cheap drink on a day like today,” the officer responded, his tone sincere, as he tipped his own pint towards Thomas. “Your health.”

“Cheers,” Thomas responded with, picking up his freshly pulled pint and carefully tapping the rim against the side of the officers glass before taking a deep drink. “Ah, that’s good.”

A smirk, which could be described as devilishly handsome, was directed at him next.

“Captain Eddington,” the officer introduced himself, offering his hand which Thomas automatically reached out to shake, his own covered by his glove. “Charles. Charlie.”

If Charlie minded the social faux pas of shaking hands whilst wearing gloves he said nothing.

“Leading Seaman Barrow,” he offered up his own name and rank. “Thomas.”

Silence fell between the two of them for a long moment as they both sipped at their drinks, enjoying the richness of the hops in the pale ale, even as the celebrations continued around them with one chap even getting his up on the table to lead his friends in a rousing rendition of _When This Lousy War Is Over_ , a parody of _What A Friend We Have In Jesus_ which had come out of the trenches sometime during the war, before following it up with a less than perfect rendition of _Rule Britannia_ before ending their sing-a-long with _God Save The King_.

Their final song choice had the entire pub standing perfectly still as they joined in.

“I wonder if his nose is itching,” Charlie murmured once the singing had come to an end, breaking the silence between them. Thomas couldn’t help but frown at him in confusion. “You know, the old saying that if your nose itches it’s because someone is thinking of you?”

“Can’t say I’ve heard that one myself,” Thomas answered honestly. “But if it’s true I imagine his nose must be driving him barmy what with the amount of times that’ll be sung today.”

“Quite!” Charlie chuckled. Along the bar from them a couple of soldiers were kissing, drawing the attention of those around them as their passion increased to the point that someone eventually had to pull them apart to tell them to take it somewhere a little more private. Blushing the two young men followed the advice they’d been given. “Oh, to be young and free on a day like today. No inhibitions. No regrets. Just relief and passion…”

A glance downward confirmed Thomas’ suspicion following that statement.

Charlie was married.

“Does your wife know you frequent places such as this?”

“No,” Charlie confessed, a hint of regret in his voice. “And as propriety demands she never will. She’s a good wife, my Jilly-Bean. Gillian, that is. Her names Gillian. We’ve been friends since before we could walk, hence the childish nickname. Married when we were nineteen.”

“Children?”

“Three,” Charlie answered, the regret shifting into obvious pride. “Three boys, no less.”

“But you don’t love her?”

“Not in the way most men love their wives,” he confessed, pausing to down the rest of his drink before continuing. “Jilly-Bean is my dearest friend and shall be my companion for life but I feel none of the passion that I do when I come to a place such as this to find a man…”

“Is that why you’re here today?”

Charlie nodded, chuckling,

“I wanted to celebrate the end of the war with men of my own kind. And you?”

“I felt the same,” Thomas answered honestly, taking another drink from his glass before setting it down on the bar in front of him. “The celebrations are all well and good but if I’m going to end up hugging and kissing someone I’d rather we both got something out of it.”

“Quite,” Charlie chuckled once more, nodding his head. “So, what do you say?”

Thomas arched an eyebrow in his direction.

The handsome officer continued undeterred,

“Care to join me in my rooms to celebrate the end of the war? No string attached.”

It amused Thomas to no end that he had been intimate with more men in the last four years that the decade previous, the war seeming to have lowered the entire countries inhibitions.

Why cling to convention when every day could be your last?

But now it was over, people would return to their old lives and would allow themselves to be constrained by what society demanded of them, and so this was possibly his last chance to find comfort and pleasure and passion with another human being for quite some time…

“Let me finish my beer first.”

Charlie’s smile was as devilishly handsome as his smirk had been.

Once the last of his pale ale had been drained from his glass Thomas found himself hurried out of the door by a hand on the small of his back, both appropriate and inappropriate at the same time. The hand remained in place for the entire length of time it took them the work their way through the crowded streets to the hotel that Charlie was staying, a much smarter establishment as befitting an officer than the one that Thomas had checked into.

His rooms were on the fourth floor, a sitting room that Thomas barely saw in their haste to reach the bedroom and his own private bathroom, an unparalleled luxury that not many could afford. Briefly, between arriving in the room and finding himself naked upon the bed, Thomas found himself wondering just how wealthy Charlie was to afford such a nice suite.

Within moment of posing the question to himself he found that he didn’t care about the answer. No, all he cared about what getting his hands on the body standing before him.

Charlie was a glorious specimen of masculine beauty.

He was muscular but not overly so, indicative of an active lifestyle rather than something cultivated to impress those who saw his naked form, and had broad shoulders and narrow hips, a combination that automatically drew Thomas’ attention down to the prominent grooves on his pleasantly flat abdomen, creating a deep ‘V’ which drew his gaze further still.

“Do I pass muster, Thomas?”

“One might think you were fishing for compliments,” Thomas responded, reclining back against the comfortable pillows so as to make it obvious that he was appreciating the sight before him, folding his arms behind his head. The grin he received in response to his light comment was pure mirth, prompting a smile of his own to settle upon his face. “But, yes, you do. Unless, of course, you intend to stay all the way over there in which case you are…”

His words were cut off when he suddenly found himself covered by the warm, heavy body of another, his lips seized in a kiss by a pair of lips that were a little too plump for his liking.

In the scheme of things, however, finding his lips too plump was hardly important at all.

“What we’re you saying, Thomas?”

“I was about to say you would be a tease to stay so far away but you have already rectified that problem,” Thomas chuckled, their breath mingled as they parted only a couple of inches so as to speak to one another following their first kiss. Almost subconsciously he spread his legs apart so that the body above him settled down between them. “Charlie…”

Their lovemaking that afternoon was slow and sweet, filled with languid kisses and gentle touches, something Thomas hadn’t experienced many times in his life and ended up lasting into the early evening, the sun setting outside without them noticing it as they swapped positions for the third, no, the fourth round of lovemaking as they dedicated all of the attention to bringing each other as much pleasure as their bodies could possibly handle.

“Enough,” Thomas was finally forced to cry out as the clock in the sitting room chimed the hour, informing the exhausted pair of lovers that it was eight o’clock. “I can take no more.”

Rather than protest at him ending their fun Charlie hummed in understanding, shifting their bodies so that they lay side by side on the bed, the sweat cooling on their glistening bodies.

His next move was something of a cliché but Thomas offered no protest, merely accepting the cigarette that Charlie had lit for the two of them to share when it was passed to him.

“How long are you in London for?”

“Till the end of the week,” Thomas answered, blowing out a plume of smoke whilst handing the cigarette back to Charlie. “Unless I get called back early although that seems unlikely given the fact that war has finally come to an end. Then I shall see what the future holds.”

“What ship are you on?”

They’d been warned about sharing such information with strangers but that was before.

_“HMS Warspite.”_

Charlie nodded, blowing out his own plume of smoke.

“You?” Thomas enquired. “Not what ship, obviously, what…actually I don’t know what…”

“Regiment. The word you’re looking for is Regiment,” Charlie supplied with a grin, passing the cigarette back to the sailor. “And I’m in the _Coldstream Guards_. Wounded at _Ypres_.”

His hand fell to the scars on his thigh Thomas had explored with his tongue hours earlier.

“Shrapnel got lodged in the bone,” he explained further. “Spent six months in Blighty recovering before they’d send me back by high time most of my regiment were gone.”

“ _Jutland_ ,” Thomas announced, holding up his ungloved hands. He’d removed them with the rest of his uniform but Charlie somehow hadn’t noticed the prominent scars until the brief lull between their first coupling and their second. The officer hadn’t commented at the time, merely copied Thomas in kissing them when they started up again. “I was on _Warrior_ then.”

“She sank, didn’t she?”

“On the way home,” Thomas confirmed, taking another hit from the cigarette before placing it between Charlie’s waiting lips. “We evacuated to _HMS Engadine_ before she went down.”

“I can’t even imagine what that was like…”

“Well, I can’t imagine what being in France was like so I think we’re even…”

They spoke of the war for a little longer, the time it took them to smoke their cigarette down to the last little stub, and then Charlie insisted that Thomas join him for dinner.

“I can’t imagine you’re any less hungry than I am after all of our exercise this afternoon,” he chuckled as the two of them donned their uniforms, smoothing out the creases that had settled into them after they’d been abandoned on the floor for so long. “And I know _just_ the place for us to visit. It’s a restaurant which is primarily aimed at those with our inclinations.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Thomas conceded, smoothing his hair down. “What kind of food is it?”

“French,” Charlie answered, tightening the knot of his tie with practiced ease before tucking it inside his jacket, smoothing both down one more time. “But don’t worry, the foods good.”

He was right, of course, the food was good.

Thomas might even have gone so far as to say it was excellent.

“I’m in London for three more days,” the officer announced suddenly at the end of their desert course, raising his left hand to discretely call for the bill. “Perhaps we could…?”

There were much worse ways to spend his leave, Thomas decided, so he agreed.

For those three days they hardly left Charlie’s rooms, emerging only to get food when the rumbling of their stomachs grew too distracting, and at the end of their time together they wished each other well, shared one final intimate kiss before going their separate ways. 

The rest of his leave passed by quietly from that point on.

~ * ~

Thomas ended up only going to sea once more during the remainder of his Naval career.

On the 21st November 1918 _HMS Warspite_ was one of the ships that escorted the _German High Seas Fleet_ into internment at _Scapa Flow_. It was a sight that would remain with him for the rest of his life; the _5th Battle Squadron_ , of which they were a part, was in the order of _HMS Barham, HMS Malaya, HMS Warspite_ and _HMS Valiant_. In front of them was the _6th Battle Squadron_ and behind them the _1st Cruiser Squadron_. This put them towards the back of the starboard line and allowed him to see almost every ship that they were escorting.

“The last time I saw most of these ships they were firing at us,” Philip muttered from where he was leaning over the railing beside him, the two of them blending in amongst the dozens of men also watching the surrendering fleet heading towards its final destination. “Strange to think that this is all over, that soon these ships will be at the bottom of the sea and we…”

“…return to our former lives.”

Only that wasn’t how things ended up playing out.

After they’d watched every ship of the _German High Seas Fleet_ meet their watery grave, scuttled by their own crews so that they could never be used against Great Britain again, Thomas received orders that he was to transfer to _HMS Excellent_ , one of the largest shore establishments of the a Royal Navy in Portsmouth, on the recommendation of both of the Captains he’d served under to become the new Chief Officers Steward on the huge base.

Philip, on the other hand, was to leave the Navy as soon as he was legally able to.

“I’ll be back home by the time you finish getting settled into your new post,” he murmured as Thomas helped him to pack up his things on the night before they and numerous other members of the crew would be departing for their new postings or their civilian lives. Only two thirds of the crew would be remaining on _Warspite_. It was the same all across the fleet now that the war was over as those who had joined up to defend their country were free to return home. “It seems almost unreal, like a dream after so long away from the old place.”

“I’m sure it will be as though you never left within a couple of weeks,” Thomas assured him, adding a carefully folding shirt to the Duke’s baggage. He had significantly more to pack up that Thomas himself had, his belongings all fitting in one canvass bag whilst Philip’s were spread throughout two large cases. “Your wife must be glad that you’re coming home…”

“I haven’t told her, actually,” Philip confessed. “I want it to be a surprise.”

In their months together on board _HMS Warspite_ they had become closer than before their falling out, a truer friendship blossoming between them since they had cleared the air. They had both put the past behind them, just as they had agreed to, and were therefore free to be intimate without the danger of feelings growing between them and twisting their reality.

Their physical intimacies, which took place as often as they could get away with, had only improved with age. Thomas had been open about all of his lovers at Philip’s request, his experiences in the years since they were last together allowing them to experiment with their lovemaking, and he had even shared his escapades in London with his current lover.

“What do you say, Thomas?” Philip enquired once everything but the things he would need that night and the following morning were packed away ready to go, leaving them stood in his now bare cabin. “One last time together for old time’s sake? Unless you’ve been spoiled by your virile Army officer and no longer desire to sleep with a lowly sailor such as myself?”

Rolling his eyes at his lover’s playful tone Thomas moved to crowd him against the back of the cabin door, Philip’s head thudding against it as the taller man sealed their lips together.

He proceeded to prove to his social superior that he was still very much interested in sailors, or rather one sailor in particular, joining the two of them together in unbridled passion for one last time. They ended up on the cabin bed, naked together, basking in their afterglow.

“I shall miss our time together, Thomas,” Philip sighed, pushing himself up from where he’d collapsed so that he could pull his uniform back on. “Perhaps we might stay in contact?”

“Letters?” Thomas chuckled. “After the trouble they caused last time?”

“Not love letters,” Philip pointed out. “Correspondence between two friends, that’s all.”

“Very well,” Thomas eventually agreed, rising from the bed so as to get dressed himself. “If you’re sure then I don’t see how a quick letter now and then will do either of us any harm.”

“You’ll have to write first once you settle in,” Philip instructed, checking out his appearance in the small mirror on the wall of his cabin. “So you can let me know your address, Thomas.”

“Very well,” he agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “I’ll write once I’ve settled into my new post.”

That agreed they parted for the night, Thomas returning to his duties, and in the morning they nodded to each other as they disembarked the ship for the last time, each of them saying goodbye to the friends they had made during their time aboard _HMS Warspite_. He had written to Mr Crawley after finishing his duties the night before informing him of his orders and the fact that he wouldn’t be taking up the offered position as his valet just yet.

He intended to see if the Navy would suit him for a while longer.

Sadly it did not.

Life on a shore establishment was vastly different to life aboard ship and, much to his surprise, Thomas found himself longing for the endless horizon or the rolling hills of Yorkshire rather than the identical buildings and cobbled streets that he saw every day.

He grew bored of the same thing happening day in, day out.

He longed for something different.

And so, after only four weeks at _HMS Excellent_ , he put in the paperwork required for him to leave His Majesties service and return to his civilian life. His request was reluctantly granted, resulting in his first letter to Philip including the news that he was returning to Downton Abbey to become valet to the future Earl of Grantham, and then once the paperwork had come through he purchased a ticket north, said goodbye to the Navy and set out for home.

~ * ~

 **A/N** Due to popular demand this will not be the last we see of Philip although it may only be in fond memories or possibly flashbacks. Comments & Suggestions are welcome as always. X

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Downton Abbey.

 **Summary:** What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he’d decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.

 **A/N** So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the ‘ _Mountbatten Festival of Music_ ’ back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the ‘ _Battle of Jutland_.’ I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn’t as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don’t claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.

 **A/N 2** please be aware that whilst _HMS Warrior_ was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980’s, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called _’36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.’_ Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.

** THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE ** **  
** **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**Downton Abbey  
February 1919**

Stepping into the servants courtyard he half expected to find Miss O’Brien waiting for him, forewarned by Anna of his impending arrival, but there was no one and the door was shut.

As he wanted to make a good first impression the second time around he paused to get rid of what remained of his cigarette, stubbing it out on the discoloured brick that he’d always used for just such a purpose before dropping it into the rusted tin beside the step which had been placed there for this very purpose, and lowered his kit bag from his shoulder to rest on the ground beside him, leaning it against his leg. His hands then made quick work of tugging out any creases in his jacket, removing the fluff and twigs he’d picked up in the woods from the bottoms of his trouser legs. Lastly he checked that his cap was tilted at the angle that he had discovered suited him best, a little less than some of his fellow sailors had worn theirs, straightened the bow of his tapes and that his lanyard was straight before ringing the bell.

It took slightly longer than he expected for someone to answer the door.

“Yes?” the unfamiliar maid enquired upon seeing him. “Can I help you?”

 _Obviously Anna had failed to spread the word to this particular member of the household,_ Thomas thought to himself as she looked him up and down, her confusion rather evident.

“Leading Seaman Barrow,” he introduced himself. “I’m here to see Mr Matthew Crawley.”

“…and is Mr Crawley expecting you?”

“In a roundabout way, yes,” Thomas answered with a wry smile. “I was instructed to to present myself to him once the Royal Navy had no further use of me and so here I am…?”

He trailed off, raising an eyebrow towards her as he hinted that he’d like to know her name.

“Jane,” she automatically supplied her name for him. “Jane Moorsum.”

She must have been considered pretty once, Thomas mused as she stepped aside to allow him to enter the familiar building, his feet automatically taking him towards the servants hall, but life had obviously been unkind to her and now she just looked tired and worn, her thick dark hair lacking the shine that it must have once had and lines surrounded her eyes.

As he stepped into the usually busy servant’s hall he was met with stunned silence.

There was Anna, still in her coat and hat, beside Mr Bates who looked at Thomas as though he were something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe. Lily was there too, the painfully shy housemaid who had always done her work without complaint, staring at him in shock.

“Thomas?”

The startled voice drew his attention over to the chair in front of the fire where the one person he was sure would be pleased to see him downstairs was sat, mending in her lap.

“Miss O’Brien,” he greeted her warmly, releasing his hold on his kit bag in order to catch his oldest friend as she threw herself at him in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, the heavy bag slipping off his shoulder to thud against the floor behind him. “It’s so good to see you...”

If the room was quiet before it was silent like a graveyard now, everyone gaping at the two of them as they hugged each other as closely as they dared before reluctantly pulling apart.

“Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”

“My discharge from the Navy came through quite suddenly,” Thomas explained, aware of everyone listening in. Footsteps alerted him to the fact that more of his former colleagues had arrived, prompting him to turn and offer them a smile. It was Madge, the other young housemaid who was only a fraction more outspoken than Lily, and Branson, the chauffeur. “If I had sent word it would probably have arrived only a few minutes before I did myself.”

“You look well, Thomas,” Mr Bates announced suddenly, breaking the silence that the rest of the room had been under and drawing all of their eyes on him. “Life at sea suited you.” 

“Indeed it did, Mr Bates,” Thomas confirmed with none of his usual venom or sarcasm towards the older man. If Bates noticed the change in his tone of voice he managed not to react. Anna, on the other hand, wore a slight frown of confusion. “And sadly that is the very reason that I am no longer a serving member of His Majesties Royal Navy; I was transferred to a shore establishment after the Armistice and found it too restrictive after so much time spent at sea. To be honest I’d probably still be aboard _Warspite_ if they had let me remain where I was but never mind. It left me able to take up a favourable offer of employment…”

“Oh?” Anna mumbled. “And what’s that, Thomas?”

“Valet to Mr Matthew Crawley,” Thomas announced, letting himself enjoy the way their mouth literally dropped open in shock before the regained control of themselves. He was not the same petty creature he had once been but upsetting those who had looked down their noses at him in the past still felt good. “Formerly Lieutenant Crawley of _HMS Warrior_.”

“…you are to be Mr Crawley’s Valet?”

The disbelief was painfully evident in Mr Bates’ normally warm voice.

Thomas nodded, aware of Miss O’Briens smug look beside him, before confirming,

“Yes. He offered me the position whilst we were in hospital together recovering from the wounds we had suffered at the _Battle of Jutland_. I’d like to speak to him, if that is possible.”

“Madge,” Anna called out, every bit the Head Housemaid in that moment which prompted the housemaid in question to look away from Thomas. “Fetch Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes.”

Nodding her head the young woman turned and scurried away in search of the Butler and Housekeeper, brushing past Daisy who entered the room carrying a heavily laden tray. She didn’t so much as glance in Thomas’ direction before getting to work laying the table ready for the servants evening meal, setting out the plates and other utensils with swift efficiency.

It wasn’t until she looked up at Anna that she realised something was going on.

“What’s wrong, Anna?” she enquired, frowning deeply. “Has something happened?”

“Hello, Daisy,” Thomas murmured before Anna could speak up, chuckling deeply at the sharp yelp that escaped the kitchen maid as she spun to face him. “How have you been?”

“Thomas? I…I’m fi…” she broke off her answer with a frown. “What are you doing here?”

“A question I would dearly like the answer to.”

There was no denying who the owner of the booming voice was, the demand pre-emptying Mr Carson’s arrival into the room by a few seconds in which time everyone straightened up.

Thomas found himself coming to the position of attention out of habit.

“I’m here to see Lieutenant, sorry, Mr Crawley about the position he offered me during the war,” Thomas explained, his voice as clipped as when he would report to a senior officer. Carson, he noticed, hadn’t changed at all although he did look tired, as though he’d been suffering from a string of sleepless nights. Beside him Mrs Hughes stood equally unchanged. “I apologise for the lack of warning as to my arrival, Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes. As I have just explained to everyone my discharge from the Royal Navy has come about quite suddenly.”

“Position, Thomas?”

“As Mr Crawley’s Valet, Mrs Hughes.” 

“You?” Mr Carson all but choked on his disbelief. “As Mr Crawley’s _Valet_?”

Thomas felt his cheeks flush with shame and embarrassment.

Obviously he was still to be judged on his past actions, not on his wartime service.

Never mind, he reassured himself, that will change just as I have changed. 

They shall see.

“Yes, Mr Carson,” he confirmed, keeping his voice perfectly controlled as he explained once again, “Lieutenant Crawley offered me the position whilst we were both recovering from the wounds we had sustained at the _Battle of Jutland_. I accepted, pending my discharge.”

“Miss O’Brien said you’d been wounded, Thomas,” Mrs Hughes murmured in what he had often though of as her ‘concerned mother’ tone. “I hope it wasn’t anything too serious?”

“A few burns, that’s all,” Thomas assured her, glossing over the subject for the moment. He was pleased no one had question his gloves. “May I be permitted to speak to Mr Crawley?”

“I shall inform him that you are here,” Mr Carson announced tersely, his eyes blazing with indignation. “However, rest assured, Thomas, that should he deny knowledge of this offer of employment you shall be removed immediately upon my return. Is that perfectly clear?”

“As crystal, Mr Carson.”

Huffing loudly Mr Carson turned and headed up the stairs to the families part of the house, leaving the gathered servants in silence that seemed to stretch awkwardly until Daisy spoke,

“You look ever so smart in your uniform, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” he responded amidst the scoffs of his former colleagues, each of them reacting with a different level of annoyance to her flattery. “Is that a wedding ring I spy?”

“Oh!” she gasped, her right hand moving to cover the ring on her left hand. “Um, yes…”

“And who’s the lucky fellow?”

“It was William.”

Thomas smile was one of genuine delight, pleased that the young man he had envied and bullied so badly had managed to win the hand of the woman he loved. His smiled faded rapidly, however, when his brain processed the way that her response had been phrased.

“…what do you mean, _was_?”

“He died,” Daisy mumbled tearfully. “A couple of hours after we were married.”

His disbelief must have shown on his face as Mrs Hughes explained further,

“He was badly wounded during the _Battle of Amiens_ last August. The Dowager Countess arranged for him to be brought back to the Abbey when it became clear that nothing could be done for him. It was far too expensive for Mr Mason to keep going to visit him in York.”

William…

William was _dead?_

The thought pained him more than it should have.

He had intended to apologise to the younger man at the earliest opportunity following his return; for his behaviour towards him, for the things that had been said between them, for the way he had treated him for so long, but it seemed that he’d left it too late. Regret filled his gut, stabbing at him like the punch William had once delivered him; hindsight was cruel.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured, his sincere tone surprising them all. “Truly.”

Mrs Hughes seemed almost relieved to hear those words pass is lips.

“But at least he was able to marry you before he…” Thomas trailed off, seeing the pain and something that he suspected might be guilt in Daisy’s eyes. “At least he had that happiness.”

They were spared further conversation on the difficult subject by Mr Carson’s return.

“The family will see you now, Thomas.”

Nodding in response Thomas reached down to grab hold of his kit bag, placing it against the wall so that it was out of the way of everyone, and followed Mr Carson up the narrow stairs.

There were no signs of the hospital that he knew had taken over the house, none that he could see by any means as everything had been returned to its proper place once the Army had left the previous month. Only a couple of ornaments seemed to have been rearranged.

“Thomas, Milord.”

Following Mr Carson into the Morning Room the former footman found himself facing the entire Crawley family, from the Dowager Countess right down to Mrs Crawley, his future employers mother. Removing his cap he placed it under his left arm and bowed politely.

“Barrow!” Matthew cried out cheerfully, drawing his attention to where the former officer sat in a wheelchair beside an elegant young woman who was perched on a chair. “At last!”

“I came as soon as the Navy had no more need of me,” Thomas responded with a slight smirk, taking in his future employers appearance. He looked good. Healthy. And, rather more importantly if he was honest, happy. “To see if you still had need of my services.”

“Of course I still have need of your services!” Matthew exclaimed with a laugh, slapping his hands against his thighs before reaching out to take hold of his companions hand. “Barrow, this is my fiancé Miss Lavinia Swire. Dearest, this is the chap I told you about. From _Jutland_.”

“The steward that saved your life?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Matthew confirmed. “Isn’t that right, Barrow?”

If the silence downstairs had been like a graveyard then this second silence was like a storm, churning the air around him. The hairs on the back of his neck reacted unpleasantly as he felt everyone’s gaze fall upon him, their expressions various stages of shock and disbelief.

“I think _saving your life_ might be a little dramatic, don’t you think, sir?”

“Well, what else would you call it, Barrow?” Matthew countered with a broad grin. “You lifted a piece of metal the size of that pianoforte off of me at great risk to yourself, injuring yourself in the process all so that I wouldn’t be burnt to death after the deck caught alight.”

The Dowager Countess tutted sharply,

“Really, Matthew, please remember that there are ladies present.”

“Oh, Granny, I heard much worse in the hospital,” Sybil announced, shifting on the sofa in such a way as to draw Thomas’ attention to her. “I hope you weren’t badly hurt, Thomas?”

“Just a couple of burns, Milady,” he answered honestly, flexing his hands at his sides. Her eyes dropped knowingly to the gloves although no one else had made the connection yet. “They’re fully healed now, of course, and the scarring hasn’t troubled me in almost a year.”

“That’s good,” the former nurse murmured, offering him a genuine smile even as her sisters continued to frown at him beside her. “Burns can be tricky to heal, as I’m sure you know.”

“How was _Warspite_?” Matthew enquired, drawing Thomas’ attention back to where he was sat with his fiancé, their hands still linked together. “How did she compare to the old girl?”

The Earl of Grantham guffawed loudly as he repeated questioningly,

“The _old girl_? Who is the _old girl_?”

“ _HMS Warrior_ ,” Matthew answered, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand in an unusual display of self-consciousness. “She was the oldest ship to take part in the battle…”

“And she was somewhat stuck in her ways,” Thomas found himself adding with a chuckle, thinking back fondly on his time aboard _Warrior_. “No more than fifteen knots in rough seas or the starboard screw would start to shake. No more than four hours at twenty knots or the port engine would overheat.” As he spoke Matthew let out a bright laugh, nodding vigorously before joining in with his final statement. “And no more than five piece of coal in the wardroom stove at a time or the flames would be sucked up out of the top of the flue.”

Lady Edith frowned, enquiring softly,

“…why are ships always referred to as she?”

“Some people suggest it's because the Latin word for ship, _navis_ , is feminine, but I’m not convinced by that particular theory,” Matthew answered, sounding more and more like the man he had once been before the Navy had changed him. “After all we get the word table from the Latin word _tabula_ , also feminine, yet we don't think of a table as a _she_ , do we?”

This got a collection of titters from the female occupants in the room.

“I always thought that it was because they care and protect us, like mothers do,” Thomas offered up his own theory without thinking it through. “Or like mothers are supposed to.”

“I much prefer that reasoning,” Lady Cora murmured with a smile, firstly aimed at Matthew and the rest of her family but then solely at Thomas. “It’s good to see you again, Thomas.”

“It’s good to be back, Your Ladyship.”

Thomas got the distinct impression that whilst His Lordship was obviously aware of what had happened prior to his leaving back in 1914 with the wine and Mr Bates, if the looks being passed between Mr Carson and his employer were anything to go by, his wife and daughters, not to mention his mother, knew nothing of the fact that he had been caught stealing. No doubt they would be informed as soon as he left the room, Matthew as well, so it was a good thing that he had already mentioned the “cloud” that he had left under to his new employer back when they’d been serving together and the regrets he now had about it.

The door opened, admitting a young woman wearing a rather stylish black dress, her dark brown hair cut in a surprisingly modern style so that with it clipped back from her face the lightly curled ends barely touched her shoulders. She brought with her a pale blue wrap which she carried across to Lavinia, passing it over to the beautiful redhead with a smile.

“Thank you, Miss Featherstone.”

“Can I get you anything else, Miss Swire?”

“No, thank you,” Lavinia responded brightly, draping the wrap around her. “That’s all.”

“Barrow, why don’t you take the rest of the day to get settled in?” Matthew suggested, offering his new Valet a broad smile. “I can survive one more day looking after myself.”

Thomas felt compelled to reassure the wheelchair bound young man,

“I don’t mind beginning my duties this evening, sir.”

“I know you don’t but I think you’ve earned a night off after the journey you must have just had,” Matthew insisted, rolling himself forward with practiced ease so that he could offer his hand to Thomas, holding it in place until it was taken and given a light shake by his new Valet under the watchful eye of his family and fiancé. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Barrow.”

“And I’m glad to be here, sir.”

He was.

He truly was.

He knew, however, that it would take a long while for those he had wronged in the house to realise that his years away had changed him. That his time in the Royal Navy had helped him to grow up at long last, to be able to understand the good points of his nature and the bad.

Leaving the room behind Miss Featherstone and before Mr Carson he found himself being herded expertly back down towards the servant’s hall where everyone was still gathered.

“Well?”

This question came from Mrs Hughes and was directed at both Thomas and Mr Carson.

“Thomas is indeed to join us as Mr Crawley’s new Valet,” the Butler confirmed, addressing the room in his usual manner. Madge let out a surprised gasp. “Therefore he is now to be addressed as Mr Barrow and shall be offered the same respect as Mr Bates, understood?”

“Yes, Mr Carson.”

Thomas ended up in his old room, finding it as unchanged as the rest of the house as no one had used it since he was left, or so he was told. It didn’t take him more than half-an-hour to unpack his things and realise that he had neglected one important thing; his old suits wouldn’t fit him anymore, not with the weight he had lost and the muscle he’d gained.

They would do temporarily but he would have to invest in a couple of new suits soon.

Keeping his uniform on for the time being Thomas returned to the Servant’s Hall in time to sit down for dinner, finding it somewhat strange not have been involved with the upstairs dinner first. He ended up sat between Miss O’Brien and Miss Featherstone at the long table.

It was Lily who turned in her seat further down the table to ask him,

“Did you really save Mr Crawleys life, Mr Barrow?”

Thomas froze, hand outstretched to accept the plate that Miss O’Brien was handing him.

“Technically, yes,” he admitted, passing the plate on to Miss Featherstone so that it could continue on down to the intended recipient. It was the same old system they’d always used, Mr Carson doling out the portions at the head of the table. “As a Steward my post during battle was in the sick berth, acting as either an attendant or as a stretcher bearer. At _Jutland_ they designated me to be a stretcher bearer so I spent the battle bringing in the wounded.”

Their hands were still moving, passing around the plates, but their attention was on him.

“Mr Crawley, then Lieutenant Crawley, had been pinned by a piece of metal which had once been one of our gun shields in an area that was quickly being consumed by fire,” he went on even as he carefully placed his own plate down before him. Someone, possibly Lily, gasped. “As was my duty I got him free and back to the sick berth where the surgeons looked after him. I wasn’t alone in my actions, however, Jenkins was with me. Another Officers Steward.”

“…and what exactly _is_ a Steward?”

“It’s basically the Navy’s version of a Footman,” Thomas answered Miss Featherstone’s soft question with a smile. “Particularly if you manage to become an Officers Steward like I did.”

“And I suppose that is why Mr Crawley offered you the position as his Valet?”

“Yes, Mr Bates, that is why,” Thomas confirmed, meeting the eyes of the man sat directly opposite him. “Just as your service with His Lordship earned you the position you hold.”

A somewhat tense silence followed.

“Mr Barrow, I hope you have not forgotten everything about life in service in your years at sea,” Mr Carson finally broke it tersely, prompting a confused frown. “Remove your gloves.”

His gaze fell down upon the brown leather covering his hands.

“Mr Carson, I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone’s dinner…”

Another tense silence fell, this time out of shock for him talking back to the Butler.

Mr Carson all but glowered as he snapped across at Thomas,

“Mr Barrow, gloves shall not be worn at my table. Remove them _at once._ ”

A beat passed.

“Very well,” Thomas finally muttered, undoing the two buttons on each glove that held it tight at the wrist and beginning to tug each of the fingers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you…”

Poor Miss Featherstone was the first to get a good look at his hands, letting out a shrill cry of alarm as he dropped the right glove onto the table by his plate, her wide eyes fixated on the scarring covering the back of his right hand. Other sounds of distress followed from the various occupants of the table as he then removed the left glove, displaying his ruined palm.

“Thomas…” Mrs Hughes gasped, her voice thick with alarm. “…are you in pain?”

“No, Mrs Hughes, they’re fully healed, I assure you,” Thomas murmured, turning his hands over again and again so that everyone could get a good look at the raised scars. “But they are still rather unsightly, hence the gloves which I took to wearing after leaving hospital.”

“They look…different…” Lily mumbled, confused. “The scars, I mean.”

“Lily!” Mrs Hughes snapped. “You should ask such a…”

“That’s because they’re different kinds of burns,” Thomas answered, shooting Mrs Hughes a look of reassurance as he lifted his right hand up. “This was caused by a piece of fabric that I had wrapped around it catching fire.” Next he held his left hand up. “And this was caused by the metal I was lifting after the fabric fell off of this hand. It had become quite hot, thanks to fire and there’s another burn on my left leg which is similar to the one on my right hand…”

“They must have been very painful.”

It was Mr Bates who voice the thought everyone was having.

“They were and they weren’t,” Thomas confessed, running the fingertips of his right hand over the twisted palm of his left. “At the time they numb, believe it or not, or I’d never have been able to carry the stretcher containing Lieutenant Crawley to the sick berth. It wasn’t until later that they started to hurt but by then we were home and there was morphine.”

Mrs Hughes glared at Mr Carson until he cleared his throat.

“I apologise, Mr Barrow,” he muttered, sounding not quite sincere enough for Thomas’ liking but he’d take what he could get just then. “Of course you may keep your gloves on.”

“Thank you, Mr Carson.”

Pulling his gloves back on with practiced ease he picked up his knife and fork and, after a beat where he waited for everyone else to copy him, began to tuck into the cottage pie.

It was every bit as delicious as he remembered.

~ * ~

 **A/N** I’ve had this chapter planned since the very beginning although I ended up adding a couple of characters in that weren’t in my original draft (Miss Featherstone, for example) so I hope it didn’t disappoint. I’m really enjoying all the comments people are leaving as they keep giving me fantastic bursts of inspiration for things to include in later chapters so please feel free to keep them coming – inspiration is always welcome on a long fic like this. Marblez x


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